NOVELS  BY  GILBERT  PARKER, 

UNIFORM    EDITION. 


The  Seats  of  the  Mighty. 

Being  the  Memoirs  of  Captain  Robert  Moray, 
sometime  an  Officer  in  the  Virginia   Regiment, 
and  afterwards  of  Amherst's    Regiment.      Illus- 
trated.    $1.50. 
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'The  Seats  of  the   Mighty  '  has  never    come  from  the  pen  of  an 
American.  .  .  .   From  the  first  chapter  to  the  last  word  interest  in 
the  book  never  wanes  ;   one  finds  it  difficult  to  interrupt  the  narra- 
tive with  breathing  space.      It  whirls  with  excitement  and  strange 
adventure." — Chicago  Record. 

The  Trail  of  the  Sword.     $1.25. 

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sesses all  these  qualities.  .  .  .  Almost  bare  of  synthetical  decora- 
tion, his  paragraphs  are  stirring  because  they  are  real.  We  read 
at  times — as  we  have  read  the  great  masters  of  romance — breath- 
lessly. ...  In  Mr.  Parker  we  feel  that  a  prophet  has  arisen,  and 
we  hope  for  him  great  and  greater  years." — The  Critic. 

The  Translation  of  a  Savage.     $1.25. 

"  Unique  in  plot  and  subject,  and  holds  the  interest  from  the 
first  page  to  the  last." — Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  A  story  of  remarkable  interest,  originality,  and  ingenuity  in 
construction. " — Boston  Home  Journal. 

Mrs.  Falchion.     $1.25. 

"A  well-knit  story  developed  in  a  singularly  interesting  fash- 


D.    APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,   NEW  YORK. 


MRS.    FALCHION 


A   NOVEL 


BY 


GILBERT    PARKER 

AUTHOR    OF    THE    SEATS    OF    THE    MIGHTY 

THE    TRANSLATION    OF    A    SAVAGE 

THE    TRAIL    OF    THE    SWORD 

THE    TRESPASSER 

ETC. 


NEW   EDITION 


NEW   YORK 
D.    APPLETON   AND   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1894, 
By  GILBERT  PARKER. 


CONTENTS. 

BOOK   I. 

BELOW    THE    SUN    LINE. 


/ 

M 


PAGB 


Chapter       I. — The  Gates  of  the  Sea,  5 

II. — «  Motley  is  Your  Only  Wear,"  -     13 

III.— A  Tale  of  No  Man's  Sea,        -  -     35 

IV.— The  Track  of  the  Ishmaelite,  -     43 

V. — Accusing  Faces,     -         -         -  -63 

VI. — Mummers  All,        -  -     73 

VII.— The  Wheel  Comes  Full  Circle,  -     94 

VIII.— A  Bridge  of  Peril,  -         -         -  -  108 

IX.—"  The  Progress  of  the  Suns,"  -  123 

"            X. — Between  Day  and  Dark,          -  -  131 

BOOK   II. 

the  slope  of  the  pacific. 

Chapter       XL— Among  the  Hills  of  God,     -  -  143 

XII.— The  Whirligig  of  Time,       -  -152 

XIIL— The  Song  of  the  Saw,          -  -  164 

M27118 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


Chapter    XIV.— The  Path  of  the  Eagle,       -  -178 

"           XV.— In  the  Trough  of  the  Winds,  -  200 

XVI.— A  Duel  in  Arcady,       -         -  -  215 

XVII.— Riding  the  Reefs,        -         -  -  225 

"       XVIII.— The  Strings  of  Destiny,        -  -  238 

1          XIX. — The  Sentence,     -  254 

"            XX. — After  the  Storm,          -         -  -  266 

"  XXL— In  Port, 274 


MRS.   FALCHION 


BOOK    I. 
Below   the   Sun    Line. 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE    GATES    OF    THE    SEA. 


The  part  I  played  in  Mrs.  Falchion's  career  is  not 
very  noble,  but  I  shall  set  it  forth  plainly  here,  else  I 
could  not  have  the  boldness  to  write  of  her  faults  or 
those  of  others.  Of  my  own  history  little  need  be  said 
in  preface.  Soon  after  graduating  with  honors,  as  a 
physician,  I  was  offered  a  professional  post  in  a  college 
of  medicine  in  Canada.  It  was  difficult  to  establish  a 
practice  in  medicine  without  some  capital,  else  I  had  re- 
mained in  London  ;  and,  being  in  need  of  instant  means, 
I  gladly  accepted  the  offer.  But  six  months  were  to  inter- 
vene before  the  beginning  of  my  duties  ; — how  to  fill  that 
time  profitably  was  the  question.  I  wished  to  travel, 
having  scarcely  been  out  of  England  during  my  life. 
Some  one  suggested  the  position  of  surgeon  on  one 
of  the  great  steamers  running  between  England  and 
Australia.  The  idea  of  a  long  sea-voyage  was  seductive, 
suffering  as  I  had  been  from  over-study,  though  the 
position  itself  was  not  very  distinguished.     But  in  those 


j,  0  .,'.';,•....  .       ,      ,     M'HS.    FALCHION. 

days  I  cared  more  for  pleasing  myself  than  for  what 
might  become  a  newly-made  professor,  and  I  was  quite 
prepared  to  say  with  a  renowned  Irish  dean  :  "  Dignity 
and  I  might  be  married,  for  all  the  relations  we  are." 

I  secured  the  position  with  humiliating  ease  and 
humiliating  smallness  of  pay.  The  steamer  was  the 
Fidvia.  It  was  one  of  the  largest  belonging  to  the  Oc- 
cidental Company ;  it  carried  no  emigrants,  and  had 
a  passenger  list  of  fashionable  folk.  On  the  voyage 
out  to  Australia  the  weather  was  pleasant  (save  in  the 
Bay  of  Biscay) ;  there  was  no  sickness  on  board,  and 
there  were  many  opportunities  for  social  gaieties,  the 
cultivation  of  pleasant  acquaintances,  and  the  encourage- 
ment of  that  brisk  idleness  which  aids  to  health.  This 
was  really  the  first  holiday  in  my  life,  and  I  enjoyed  it 
thoroughly.  Nothing  of  unusual  interest  occurred  on 
the  outward  voyage,  for  one  thing,  because  there  were 
no  unusual  people  among  the  passengers  ;  for  another, 
because  the  vessel  behaved  admirably.  The  same  can- 
not be  said  of  the  return  voyage  :  and  with  it  my  story 
really  begins.  Misfortune  followed  us  out  of  Sydney 
Harbor.  We  broke  a  crank-shaft  between  there  and 
Port  Phillip,  Melbourne  ;  a  fire  in  the  hold  occurred  at 
Adelaide,  and  at  Albany  we  buried  a  passenger  who  had 
died  of  consumption  one  day  out  from  King  George's 
Sound. 

At  Colombo  also  we  had  a  misfortune,  but  it  was 
of  a  peculiar  kind,  and  did  not  obtrude  itself  at  once  ; 
it  consisted  of  an  addition  to  our  passenger  list.  I 
had  spent  a  day  in  exploring  Colombo — visiting  Arabi 
Pasha,  inspecting  Hindu  temples,  watching  the  jugglers 
and  snake-charmers,  evading  the  sellers  of  brummagem 
jewelry,  and  guides,  and  idling  in  the  Cinnamon  Gardens. 
I  returned  to  the  ship  tired  out.  After  I  had  done  some 
official  duties,  I  sauntered  to  the  gangway,  and,  leaning 
against  the  bulwarks,  idly  watched  the  passengers  come 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


on  board  from  the  tender.  Two  of  these  made  an 
impression  on  me.  One  was  a  handsome  and  fashion- 
ably-dressed woman  who  was  followed  by  (as  I  guessed)  a 
maid  or  companion,  carrying  parcels  ;  the  other,  a  shab- 
bily-dressed man,  who  was  the  last  to  come  up  from  the 
tender.  The  woman  was  going  down  the  companion-way 
when  he  stepped  on  deck  with  a  single  bag  in  his  hand, 
and  I  noticed  that  he  watched  her  with  a  strange  look  in 
his  eyes.  He  stood  still  as  he  looked,  and  remained  so 
for  a  moment  after  she  had  gone  ;  then  he  seemed  to 
recover  himself,  and  started,  as  I  thought,  almost  guiltily, 
when  he  saw  that  my  attention  was  attracted.  He 
nervously  shifted  his  bag  from  one  hand  to  the  other, 
and  looked  round,  as  though  not  certain  of  where  he 
should  go.  A  steward  came  to  him  officiously,  and 
patronizingly  too, — which  is  the  bearing  of  servants  to 
shabbily-dressed  people, — but  he  shook  his  head,  caught 
his  bag  smartly  away  from  the  steward's  fingers,  and 
moved  towards  the  after-part  of  the  ship,  reserved  for 
intermediate  passengers.  As  he  went  he  hesitated,  came 
to  the  side  of  the  vessel,  looked  down  at  the  tender  for  a 
moment,  cast  his  eyes  to  where  the  anchor  was  being 
weighed,  made  as  if  he  would  go  back  to  the  tender  ; 
then,  seeing  that  the  ladder  was  now  drawn  up,  sighed, 
and  passed  on  to  the  second-class  companion-way, 
through  which  he  disappeared. 

I  stood  commenting  idly  to  myself  upon  this  incident, 
which,  slight  though  it  was,  appeared  to  have  signifi- 
cance of  a  kind,  when  Hungerford,  the  fifth  officer, 
caught  me  slyly  by  the  arm,  and  said  :  "  Lucky  fellow  ! 
Nothing  to  do  but  watch  the  world  go  by.  I  wish  I  had 
you  in  the  North  Atlantic  on  a  whaler,  or  in  the  No 
Man's  Sea  on  a  pearl-smack  for  a  matter  of  thirty  days." 

"  What  would  come  of  that,  Hungerford  ? "  said  I. 

"An  exchange  of  mind  for  matter,  Marmion  ;  muscle 
for  meditation,  physics  for  philosophy." 


8  MRS.    FALCHION. 

"  You  do  me  too  much  honor.  At  present  I've  neither 
mind,  meditation,  nor  philosophy  ;  I  am  simply  vegetat- 
ing." 

"  Which  proves  you  to  be  demoralized.  I  never  saw  a 
surgeon  on  a  ship  who  wasn't.  They  began  with  mind, — 
more  or  less, — they  ate  the  fruits  of  indolence,  got  pre- 
cious near  being  sinful  as  well  as  indolent,  and  ended 
with  cheap  cynicism,  with  the  old  Quid  refert,  the  thing 
Hamlet  plagiarized  in  his,  '  But  it  is  no  matter.'  " 

"  Isn't  this  an  unusual  occupation  for  you,  Hungerford 
— this  Swiftonian  criticism  ? " 

"Swiftonian  is  it  ?  You  see  I've  practised  on  many  of 
your  race,  Marmion,  and  I  have  it  pat  now.  You  are 
all  of  two  classes  :  those  who  sicken  in  soul  and  leave 
after  one  trip,  and  those  who  make  another  trip  and  are 
lost." 

"  Lost  ?     How  ? " 

Hungerford  pressed  his  fingers  hard  on  my  breast- 
bone, looked  at  me  enigmatically  from  under  his  well- 
hung  brows,  and  replied  :  "  Brains  put  out  to  seed,  morals 
put  out  to  vegetate— that's  '  lost.'  " 

"  What  about  fifth  officers  ?  " 

"  Fifth  officers  work  like  navvies,  and  haven't  time  for 
foolishness.  They've  got  to  walk  the  bridge,  and  practise 
the  boats,  and  be  responsible  for  luggage  ;  and  here  I  am, 
talking  to  you  like  an  infallible  undergraduate,  while  the 
Lascars  are  in  endless  confusion  with  a  half-dozen  pieces 
of  luggage,  and  the  first  officer  foams  because  I'm  not 
there  to  set  them  right.  I  leave  you  to  your  dreams. 
Good-by." 

Hungerford  was  younger  than  myself,  but  he  knew  the 
world,  and  I  was  flattered  by  these  uncommon  remarks, 
because  he  talked  to  no  one  else  on  the  ship  in  the 
same  way.  He  never  sought  to  make  friends,  had  a 
thorough  contempt  for  social  trifling,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders  at  the  "  swagger  "  of  some  of  the  other  officers. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  9 

I  think  he  longed  for  a  different  kind  of  sea-life,  so  ac- 
customed had  he  been  to  an  adventurous  and  hardy- 
career.  He  had  entered  the  Occidental  service  because 
he  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  pretty  girl,  and  thought  it  his 
duty  to  become  a  "  regular,"  and  thus  have  the  chance 
of  seeing  her  every  three  months  in  London.  He  had 
conceived  a  liking  for  me,  reciprocated  on  my  part ;  the 
more  so,  because  I  knew  that  behind  his  blunt  exterior 
there  was  a  warm  and  manly  heart.  When  he  left  me  I 
went  to  my  cabin  and  prepared  for  dinner,  laughing,  as 
I  did  so,  at  his  keen,  uncompromising  criticism,  which  I 
knew  was  correct  enough  ;  for  of  all  official  posts,  that 
of  a  ship-surgeon  is  least  calculated  to  make  a  man  take 
a  pride  in  existence.  At  its  best  it  is  assisting  in  the  move- 
ment of  a  panorama  ;  at  its  worst,  worse  than  a  vegetation. 
Hungerford's  solicitude  for  myself,  however,  was  mis- 
placed, because  this  one  voyage  would  end  my  career  as 
ship-surgeon  ;  and,  besides,  I  had  not  vegetated,  but  had 
been  interested  in  everything  that  had  occurred,  hum- 
drum as  it  was. 

With  these  thoughts  I  looked  out  of  the  port-hole  to 
see  the  shores  of  Colombo,  Galle  Face,  and  Mount 
Lavinia  fading  in  the  distance,  and  heard  seven  bells, — 
the  time  for  dinner.  When  I  took  my  seat  at  the  table 
of  which  I  was  the  head,  my  steward  handed  to  me  a 
slip  of  paper,  saying  that  the  chief  steward  had  given  a 
new  passenger,  a  lady,  the  seat  at  my  right  hand,  which 
had  been  vacated  at  Colombo.  The  name  on  the  paper 
was,  "Mrs.  Falchion."  The  seat  was  still  empty,  and  I 
wondered  if  this  was  the  beautiful  passenger  who  had 
attracted  me  and  seemingly  interested  the  intermediate 
passenger.      I  was  selfish  enough  to  wish  so  :    and  it 

was  so. 

We  had  finished  the  soup  before  she  entered.  The 
chief  steward,  with  that  anxious  civility  which  beauty  can 
inspire  in  even  so  great  a  personage,  conducted  her  to 


IO  MRS.    FALCHION. 

her  seat  beside  me.  I  confess  that  though  I  was  at  once 
absorbed  in  this  occurrence,  I  noticed  also  that  some  of 
the  ladies  present  smiled  significantly  when  they  saw  at 
whose  table  Mrs.  Falchion  was  placed,  and  looked  not  a 
little  ironically  at  the  purser,  who,  as  it  was  known,  always 
tried  to  get  for  his  table  the  newest  addition  to  the  pas- 
senger-list— when  it  was  a  pretty  woman.  I  believe  that 
one  or  two  rude  people  chaffed  the  chief  steward  about 
"  favoring  the  doctor  ;  "  but  he  had  a  habit  of  saying 
uncomfortable  things  in  a  deferential  way,  and  they  did 
not  pursue  the  subject.  Then  they  commiserated  the 
purser,  who  was  an  unpleasant  little  Jew  of  an  envious 
turn  of  mind  ;  and  he,  as  I  was  told,  likened  me  to  Sir 
John  Falstaff.  I  was  sensitive  in  those  days,  and  this 
annoyed  me,  particularly  that  I  had  had  nothing  to  do 
with  placing  Mrs.  Falchion  at  my  table.  We  are  always 
most  sensitive  when  we  are  guilty  concerning  the  spirit 
and  not  the  letter. 

One  who  has  lived  the  cosmopolitan  life  of  London 
should  be  quick  at  detecting  nationalities,  but  I  found  it 
difficult,  even  after  I  heard  her  speak,  to  guess  at  Mrs. 
Falchion's  native  land.  There  were  good  reasons  for 
this,  as  will  be  duly  seen.  Her  appearance  in  the  saloon 
caused  an  instant  buzz  of  admiration  and  interest,  of 
which  she  seemed  oblivious.  If  it  was  acting,  it  was 
good  acting  ;  if  it  was  lack  of  self-consciousness,  it  was 
remarkable.  As  I  soon  came  to  know,  it  was  the  latter  ; 
which,  in  such  a  woman,  increased  the  remarkableness. 
I  was  inclined  at  first  to  venture  the  opinion  that  she  was 
an  actress,  but  I  discovered  that  she  possessed  the  attract- 
ing power  of  an  actress,  without  the  mind  or  manners  of 
one  ;  her  very  lack  of  self-consciousness  was  proof  of 
this  emancipation. 

When  she  sat  down,  I  immediately  welcomed  her  by 
name  to  my  table.  The  only  surprise  she  showed  at  my 
knowledge  of  her  name  and  my  self-introduction  was  to 


MRS.    FALCHION.  II 

lift  her  head  slightly  and  look  at  me,  as  if  wondering 
whether  I  was  likely  to  be  an  inquisitive  and  troublesome 
host ;  and  also,  as  I  thought,  to  measure  me  according  to 
her  measure.  It  was  a  quick  look,  and  the  interest  she 
showed  was  of  a  passive  kind.  She  asked  me,  as  she 
might  an  old  acquaintance — or  a  waiter — if  the  soup  was 
good,  and  what  the  fish  was  like  ;  decided,  on  my  recom- 
mendation, to  wait  for  the  entrees ;  requested  her  next 
neighbor  to  pass  the  olives ;  in  an  impersonal  way  began 
to  talk  about  the  disadvantages  of  life  at  sea  ;  regretted 
that  all  ship  food  tasted  alike  ;  wondered  if  the  cook 
knew  how  to  truffle  a  turkey,  and  added  that  the  menu 
was  a  national  compromise. 

Now  that  she  was  close  to  me,  I  could  see  that  her 
beauty  was  real  and  notable.  Her  features  were  regular  ; 
her  eyes  of  a  greyish  violet ;  her  chin  strong,  yet  not  too 
strong — the  chin  of  a  singer  ;  her  hands  had  that  charm- 
ing, quiet  certainty  of  movement  possessed  by  so  few  ; 
and  her  color  was  of  the  most  delightful  health.  In  this 
delightful  health,  in  her  bountiful  yet  perfect  physical 
eloquence,  her  attractiveness,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  chiefly 
lay.  For  no  one  would  ever  have  guessed  her  to  possess 
an  emotional  temperament.  All  that  was  outer  was  fas- 
cinating ;  all  that  was  inner  suggested  coldness.  After 
experience  assured  me  that  all  who  came  to  know  her 
shared  this  estimate,  even  in  those  days  when  every  man 
on  the  ship  was  willing  to  be  her  slave.  She  had  a  com- 
pelling atmosphere,  a  possessive  presence,  and  yet  her 
mind  at  this  time  was  unemotional ;  like  Octavia  the  wife 
of  Mark  Antony,  "  of  a  cold  conversation."  She  was 
striking  and  unusual  in  appearance,  and  yet  well  within 
convention  and  "  good  form."  Her  dress  was  simply  and 
modestly  worn,  and  had  little  touches  of  grace  and  taste 
which,  I  understand,  many  ladies  on  board  sought  to  imi- 
tate, when  they  recovered  from  the  first  feeling  of  envy. 

She  was  an  example  of  splendid  life.     I  cared  to  look 


12  MRS.    FALCHION. 

at  her  as  one  would  dwell  on  the  sleek  beauty  of  a  deer ; 
as,  indeed,  I  have  many  a  time  since  then,  in  India, 
watched  a  tigress  asleep  on  her  chain,  claws  hidden,  wild 
life  latent  but  slumbering.  I  would  have  staked  my  life 
that  Mrs.  Falchion  was  insensible  to  love  or  passion,  and 
unimpeachable  in  the  broad  scheme  of  right  and  wrong  ; 
imperious  in  requiring  homage,  incapable  of  giving  it. 
I  noticed  when  she  laughed,  as  she  did  once  at  the  table, 
that  her  teeth  were  very  white  and  small  and  square  ; 
and,  like  a  school-girl,  she  had  a  habit  of  clicking  them 
together  very  lightly,  but  not  conspicuously,  as  if  trying 
their  quality.  It  suggested,  however,  something  a  little 
cruel.  Her  appetite  was  very  good.  She  was  coolly 
anxious  about  the  amusements  ;  she  asked  me  if  I  could 
get  her  a  list  of  the  passengers,  said  that  she  was  never 
seasick,  and  took  a  languid  interest  in  the  ladies  present — 
her  glance  at  the  men  was  at  first  keen,  then  neutral. 

Once  again  during  the  meal  she  turned  and  flashed 
an  inquiring  glance  at  me.  1  caught  her  eyes.  She 
did  not  show  embarrassment,  and  asked  me  if  the  band 
insisted  on  playing  every  day.  Before  she  left  the 
saloon,  one  could  see  that  many  present  were  talking 
about  her.  Even  the  grim  old  captain  followed  her  with 
his  eyes  as  she  went.  When  she  rose,  I  asked  her  if  she 
was  going  on  deck.  I  did  it  casually,  as  though  it  was 
her  usual  custom  to  appear  there  after  dinner,  and  for  me 
also.  In  like  fashion  she  replied  that  her  maid  had  some 
unpacking  to  do  ;  she  herself  had  some  things  to  super- 
intend, and,  when  this  was  done,  she  intended  to  spend 
a  time  on  deck.  Then,  with  an  enigmatical  smile,  she 
passed  out. 

Note  by  Dr.  Marmion  appended  to  his  MSS.  :  —  "  Many  of  the 
conversations  and  monologues  which  appear  in  this  story,  not  heard 
by  myself  when  they  occurred,  were  told  to  me  afterwards,  or  got 
from  the  diaries  and  notes  of  the  persons  concerned.  Only  one  or 
two  are  purely  imaginary."  G.  P. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  13 

CHAPTER   II. 

11  MOTLEY    IS   YOUR    ONLY    WEAR." 

I  went  to  my  cabin,  took  a  book,  sat  down,  and  began 
to  smoke.  My  thoughts  drifted  from  the  book,  and  then 
occurred  a  strange,  incongruous  thing.  It  was  a  remem- 
bered incident.  It  came  like  a  vision,  as  I  was  lighting  a 
fresh  cigar  : — 

A  boy  and  a  girl  in  a  village  chemist's  shop  ;  he  with 
a  boy's  love  for  her,  she  responding  in  terms,  but  not  in 
fact.  He  passed  near  her,  carrying  a  measure  of  sul- 
phuric acid.  She  put  out  her  hand  suddenly  and  play- 
fully, as  if  to  bar  his  way.  His  foot  slipped  on  the 
oily  floor,  and  the  acid  spilled  on  his  hands  and  the  skirt 
of  her  dress.  He  turned  instantly,  and  plunged  his  hands 
into  a  measure  of  alcohol  standing  near,  before  the  acid 
had  more  than  slightly  scalded  them.  She  glanced  at 
his  startled  face  ;  hers  was  without  emotion.  She  looked 
down  and  said  petulantly  :  "  You  have  spoiled  my  dress  ; 
I  can't  go  into  the  street."  The  boy's  clothes  were 
burned  also.  He  was  poor,  and  to  replace  them  must 
be  a  trial  to  him  ;  her  father  owned  the  shop,  and  was 
well-to-do.  Still  he  grieved  most  that  she  should  be 
annoyed,  though  he  saw  her  injustice.  But  she  turned 
away  and  left  him. 

Another  scene  then  crossed  the  disc  of  smoke  :  — 

The  boy  and  girl,  now  man  and  woman,  standing  alone 
in  the  chemist's  shop.  He  had  come  out  of  the  great 
working  world  after  travel  in  many  countries.  His  fame 
had  come  with  him.  She  was  to  be  married  the  next  day 
to  a  seller  of  purple  and  fine  linen.  He  was  smiling  a 
good-by,  and  there  was  nothing  of  the  old  past  in  the 
smile.  The  flame  now  was  in  her  eyes,  and  she  put  out 
both  her  hands  to  stop  him  as  he  turned  to  go  ;  but  his 


14  MRS.    FALCHION. 

face  was  passionless.  "  You  have  spoiled  my  heart,"  she 
said  ;  "  I  cannot  go  into  the  world  so. "  "  It  is  too  late  ; 
the  measures  are  empty,"  he  replied.  "  My  hate,  then, 
will  follow  you  after  to-morrow,"  was  the  answer.  But 
he  turned  and  left  her,  and  she  blindly  stretched  out 
her  hands  and  followed  him  into  the  darkness,  weeping. 

Was  it  the  scent  of  the  chemicals  in  my  cabin,  coupled 
with  some  subterranean  association  of  things,  that  made 
these  scenes  appear  before  me  at  this  moment  ?  What 
had  they  to  do  with  Mrs.  Falchion  ? 

A  time  came  when  the  occurrence  appeared  to  me  in 
the  light  of  prescience  ;  but  that  was  when  I  began  to 
understand  that  all  ideas,  all  reason  and  philosophy,  are 
the  result  of  outer  impression.  The  primal  language  of 
our  minds  is  in  the  concrete.  Afterwards  it  becomes  the 
cypher,  and  even  at  its  highest  it  is  expressed  by  angles, 
lines,  and  geometrical  forms — substances  and  allusive 
shapes.  But  now,  as  the  scene  passed  by,  I  had  involun- 
tarily thrust  out  my  hands,  as  did  the  girl  when  she  passed 
out  into  the  night,  and,  in  doing  so,  touched  the  curtain 
of  my  cabin  door,  swinging  in  towards  me.  I  recovered 
myself,  and  a  man  timidly  stepped  inside,  knocking  on 
the  lintel  as  he  did  so.  It  was  the  Intermediate  Passen- 
ger.    His  face  was  very  pale.     He  looked  ill. 

Poor  as  his  dress  was,  I  saw  that  he  had  known  the 
influences  and  practised  the  graces  of  good  society, 
though  his  manner  was  hesitating  and  anxious  now.  I 
knew  at  a  glance  that  he  was  suffering  from  both  physical 
pain  and  mental  worry.  Without  a  word  I  took  his 
wrist  and  felt  his  pulse  ;  and  he  said  :  "  I  thought  I  might 
venture  to  come " 

I  motioned  to  him  not  to  speak.  I  counted  the  irreg- 
ular pulse-beats,  and  listened  to  the  action  of  his  heart 
with  my  ear  to  his  breast.  There  lay  his  physical  trouble. 
I  poured  out  a  dose  of  digitalis,  and,  handing  it  to  him, 
asked  him  to  sit  down.     As  he  sat  and  drank  the  medi- 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


15 


cine,  I  rapidly  studied  him.  The  chin  was  firm,  and  the 
eyes  had  a  dogged,  persistent  look  that,  when  turned  on 
you,  saw  not  you,  but  something  beyond  you.  The  head 
was  thrown  slightly  forward,  the  eyes  looking  up  at  an 
anp-le.  This  last  action  was  habitual  with  him.  It  gave 
him  a  peculiar  earnestness.  As  I  noted  these  peculiari- 
ties, my  mind  was  also  with  his  case  ;  I  saw  that  his  life 
was  threatened.  Perhaps  he  guessed  what  was  going 
on  in  me,  for  he  said  in  a  low,  cultured  voice  :  "  The 
wheels  will  stop  too  long  sometime,  and  there  will  be  no 
rebound  ;  " — referring  to  the  irregular  action  of  his  heart. 

"  Perhaps  that  is  true,"  I  said.  "  Yet  it  depends  a 
good  deal  upon  yourself  when  it  will  be.  Men  can  die  if 
they  wish  without  committing  suicide.  Look  at  the  Maori, 
the  Tongan,  the  Malay.  They  can  also  prolong  life 
(not  indefinitely,  but  in  a  case  like  yours  considerably), 
if  they  choose.  You  can  lengthen  your  days  if  you  do 
not  brood  on  fatal  things — fatal  to  you  ;  if  you  do  not 
worry  yourself  into  the  grave." 

I  knew  that  something  of  this  was  platitude,  and  that 
counsel  to  such  a  man  must  be  of  a  more  possible  cast,  if 
it  is  to  be  followed.  I  was  aware  also,  that,  in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten,  worry  is  not  a  voluntary  or  constitutional 
thing,  but  springs  from  some  extraneous  cause.  He 
smiled  faintly,  raised  his  head  a  little  higher,  and  said  : 
"  Yes,  that's  just  it,  I  suppose  ;  but  then  we  don't  order 
our  own  constitutions  ;  and  I  believe,  Doctor,  that  you 
must  kill  a  nerve  before  it  ceases  to  hurt.  One  doesn't 
choose  to  worry,  any  more  than  one  chooses  to  lay  bare 
a  nerve."  And  then  his  eyes  dropped,  as  if  he  thought 
he  may  have  said  too  much. 

Again  I  studied  him,  repeating  my  definitions  in  my 
mind.  He  was  not  a  drunkard.  He  might  have  had  no 
vice,  so  free  was  his  face  from  any  sign  of  dissipation  or 
indulgence  ;  but  there  was  suffering,  possibly  the  marks 
of  some  endured  shame.     The  suffering  and  shadows 


l6  MRS.    FALCHION. 

showed  the  more,  because  his  features  were  refined 
enough  for  a  woman.  And  altogether  it  struck  me  that  he 
was  possessed  by  some  one  idea  which  gave  his  features 
a  kind  of  sorrowful  eloquence,  such  as  one  sees  on  occa- 
sion in  the  face  of  a  great  actor  like  Salvini,  on  the  fore- 
head of  a  devout  Buddhist,  or  in  the  eyes  of  a  Jesuit 
missionary  who  martyrs  himself  in  the  wilds. 

I  felt  at  once  for  the  man  a  sympathy,  a  brotherli- 
ness,  the  causes  of  which  I  should  be  at  a  loss  to  trace. 
Most  people  have  this  experience  at  one  time  or  another 
in  their  lives.  It  is  not  a  matter  of  sex ;  it  may  be 
between  an  old  man  and  a  little  child,  a  great  man  and  a 
laborer,  a  school-girl  and  an  old  negro  woman.  There 
is  in  such  companionships  less  self-interest  than  in  any 
other.  As  I  have  said,  I  thought  that  this  man  had  a 
trouble  ;  and  I  wished  to  know  it,  not  from  curiosity, — 
though  my  mind  had  a  selfish,  inquiring  strain, — but 
because  I  hoped  I  might  be  able  to  help  him  in  some 
way.  I  put  my  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  replied  : 
"  You  will  never  be  better  unless  you  get  rid  of  your 
worry." 

He  drew  in  a  sharp  breath  and  replied  :  "  I  know 
that.     I'm  afraid  I  shall  never  be  better." 

There  was  a  silence  in  which  we  looked  at  each  other 
steadily,  and  then  he  added,  with  an  intense  but  quiet 
sadness,  "  Never — never  !  " 

At  that  he  moved  his  hand  across  his  forehead  wearily, 
rose,  and  turned  towards  the  door.  He  swayed  as  he 
did  so,  and  would  have  fallen,  but  I  caught  him  as  he 
lost  consciousness,  and  laid  him  on  the  cabin  sofa.  I 
chafed  his  hands,  unloosed  his  collar,  and  opened  the 
bosom  of  his  shirt.  As  the  linen  dropped  away  from  his 
throat,  a  small  portrait  on  ivory  was  exposed  on  his 
breast.  I  did  not  look  closely  at  it  then,  but  it  struck 
me  that  the  woman's  head  in  the  portrait  was  familiar, 
though  the  artistic  work  was  not  recent,  and  the  fashion 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


17 


of  the  hair  was  of  years  before.  When  his  eyes  opened, 
and  he  felt  his  neck  bare,  he  hurriedly  put  up  his  hand 
and  drew  the  collar  close,  and,  at  the  same  time,  sent  a 
startled  and  inquiring  look  at  me.  After  a  few  moments 
I  helped  him  to  his  feet,  and,  thanking  me  more  with  a 
look  than  with  words,  he  turned  towards  the  door  again. 

"  Wait,"  I  said,  "  until  I  give  you  some  medicine,  and 
then  you  shall  take  my  arm  to  your  cabin." 

With  a  motion  of  the  hand,  signifying  the  uselessness 
of  remedies,  he  sat  down  again.  As  I  handed  him  the 
phial  I  continued  :  "  I  know  that  it  is  none  of  my  busi- 
ness, but  you  are  a  suffering  man.  To  help  your  body, 
your  mind  should  be  helped  also.  Can't  you  tell  me 
your  trouble  ?  Perhaps  I  should  be  able  to  serve  you. 
I  would  if  I  could." 

It  may  be  that  I  spoke  with  a  little  feeling  and  an  ap- 
parent honesty,  for  his  eyes  searched  mine  in  a  kind  of 
earnest  bewilderment,  as  if  this  could  not  be  true  ;  as  if, 
indeed,  life  had  gone  so  hard  with  him  that  he  had  for- 
gotten the  way  of  kindness.  Then  he  put  out  his 
hand  and  said  brokenly  :  "lam  grateful,  believe  me.  I 
can't  tell  you  just  now,  but  I  will  soon  perhaps."  His 
hand  was  upon  the  curtain  of  the  door,  when  my  steward's 
voice  was  heard  outside,  calling  my  name.  The  man 
himself  entered  immediately,  and  said  that  Mrs.  Falchion 
sent  her  compliments,  and  would  I  come  at  once  to  see 
her  companion.  Miss  Caron,  who  had  hurt  herself  ? 

The  Intermediate  Passenger  turned  towards  me  a 
strange  look,  his  lips  opened  as  if  about  to  speak,  but  he 
said  nothing.  At  the  instant  there  came  to  my  mind 
whom  the  picture  on  his  breast  resembled  :  it  was  Mrs. 
Falchion. 

I  think  he  saw  this  new  intelligence  in  my  face,  and 
a  beseeching  look  took  the  place  of  words,  as  he  slowly 
left  the  cabin,  mutely  refusing  assistance. 

I  went  to  Mrs.  Falchion's  cabin,  and  met  her  outside 


I  8  MRS.    FALCHION. 

the  door.  She  wore  a  look  of  displeasure.  "  Justine  has 
hurt  herself,"  she  said.  "  Please  attend  to  her  ;  I  am 
going  on  deck." 

The  unfeeling  nature  of  this  remark  held  me  to  the 
spot  for  a  moment,  then  I  entered  the  cabin.  Justine 
Caron,  a  delicate  but  warm-faced  girl  of  a  little  more 
than  twenty,  was  sitting  on  the  cabin  sofa,  her  head  sup- 
ported against  the  wall,  and  her  hand  wound  in  a  hand- 
kerchief soaked  in  blood.  Her  dress  and  the  floor  were 
also  stained.  I  undid  the  handkerchief  and  found  an 
ugly  wound  in  the  palm  of  the  hand.  I  called  the  stew- 
ard and  sent  him  to  my  dispensary  for  some  necessaries  ; 
then  I  asked  her  how  it  happened.  At  the  moment  I 
saw  the  cause — a  broken  bottle  lying  on  the  floor.  "  The 
ship  rolled,"  she  said.  "  The  bottle  fell  from  the  shelf 
upon  the  marble  washstand,  and,  breaking,  from  there 
to  the  floor.  Madame  caught  at  my  arm  to  save  herself 
from  falling,  but  I  slipped,  and  was  cut  on  the  bottle 
so." 

As  she  ended  there  was  a  knock,  but  the  curtain  was 
not  drawn,  and  Mrs.  Falchion's  voice  was  heard  :  "  My 
dress  is  stained,  Justine." 

The  half-fainting  girl  weakly  replied  :  "I  am  very 
sorry,  madame,  indeed." 

To  this  Mrs.  Falchion  rejoined  :  "  When  you  have  been 
attended  to,  you  may  go  to  bed,  Justine.  I  shall  not 
want  you  again  to-night.  But  I  shall  change  my  dress. 
It  is  so  unpleasant  ;  I  hate  blood.  I  hope  you  will  be 
well  in  the  morning." 

To  this  Justine  replied  :  "  Ah,  madame,  I  am  sorry.  I 
could  not  help  it  ;  but  I  shall  be  quite  well  in  the  morn- 
ing, I  am  sure."  Then  she  added  quietly  to  me  :  "  The 
poor  madame  !  She  will  not  see  suffering.  She  hates 
pain.  Sickness  troubles  her.  Shall  I  be  able  to  use  my 
hand  very  soon,  monsieur  ?  " 

There  was  a  wistful  look   in  her  eyes,  and  guessing 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


19 


why  it  was  there,  I  said  :  "  Soon,  I  hope  ;  in  a  few  days, 
no  doubt." 

Her  face  lighted  up  and  she  said  :  "  Madame  likes 
about  her  people  who  are  happy  and  well."  Then, 
as  if  he  had  been  indiscreet,  she  hurriedly  added  : 
"  But  she  is  very  kind  ;  "  and  stooping  down  quickly, 
her  face  whitening  with  the  effort,  she  caught  up  the 
broken  glass,  and  threw  it  through  the  porthole,  into  the 
sea. 

A  half-hour  later  I  went  on  deck,  and  found  Mrs. 
Falchion  comfortably  seated  in  her  deck  chair.  I 
brought  a  stool  over  and  sat  down  beside  her.  To  this 
hour  the  quickness  with  which  I  got  upon  friendly  terms 
with  her  astonishes  me.  "Justine  is  better?"  she  asked, 
and  her  hand  made  a  slight  motion  of  disgust. 

"  Yes.     She  was  not  dangerously  hurt." 

"  Let  us  change  the  subject,  please.  They  are  going 
to  have  a  fancy-dress  ball  on  board,  I  believe,  before  we 
get  to  Aden.  How  tiresome  !  Isn't  it  a  little  affectation 
on  the  part  of  the  stage-struck  committee  ?  Isn't  it — 
inconsequent  ? " 

"  That  depends,"  I  said  vaguely,  inviting  a  question. 
She  idled  with  a  book  in  her  lap. 

"  On  what  ?  " 

"  On  those  who  go,  what  costumes  are  worn,  and  how 
much  beauty  and  art  appear." 

"  But  the  trouble  !  Does  it  pay  ?  What  return  does 
one  get  ?  " 

"  If  all  admire,  half  are  envious,  some  are  jealous,  and 
one  is  devoted,  isn't  that  enough  ? "  I  think  I  was  a  fool 
that  night. 

"  You  seem  to  understand  women,"  she  said  with  a 
puzzling,  and  not  quite  satisfactory  smile.  "  Yes,  all 
that  is  something." 

Though  I  was  looking  at  the  sea  rather  than  at  her,  I 
saw  again  that  inquiring  look  in  her  eyes, — such  a  meas- 


20  MRS.    FALCHION. 

uring  look  as  a  recruiting  sergeant  might  give  a  victim 
of  the  queen's  shilling. 

After  a  moment's  pause  she  continued,  I  thought, 
abstractedly  :  "  As  what  should  you  go  ? " 

I  answered  lightly  and  without  premeditation  :  "  As 
Caius  Cassius.     Why  should  you  not  appear  as  Portia  ?  " 

She  lifted  her  eyebrows  at  me.     "  As  Portia  ? " 

"  As  Portia,  the  wife  of  Brutus,"  I  blundered  on,  at  the 
same  time  receiving  her  permission,  by  a  nod,  to  light 
my  cigar. 

"  The  pious,  love-sick  wife  of  Brutus  !  "  This  in  a 
disdainful  tone,  and  the  white  teeth  clicked  softly  yet 
cruelly  together. 

"Yes  ;  a  good  disguise,"  I  said  banteringly,  though  I 
fancy  somewhat  tentatively  also,  and  with  a  touch  of 
rudeness.  I  was  thinking  at  that  moment  of  the  Inter- 
mediate Passenger,  and  I  was  curious. 

"  And  you  think  of  going  in  the  disguise  of  a  gentle- 
man— Caius  Cassius  was  that,  wasn't  he  ? "  she  retorted 
in  a  neutral,  but  slightly  ironical  tone. 

"  I  suppose  he  was,  though  he  was  punished  once  for 
rudeness,"  I  replied  apologetically. 

"  Quite  so,"  was  the  decisive  reply. 

I  felt  that  she  was  perfectly  cool,  while  I  was  a  little 
confused,  and  ashamed,  too,  that  I  had  attempted  to  be 
playfully  satirical.  And  so,  wondering  what  I  should 
say  next,  I  remarked  in  desperation,  "  Do  you  like  the 
sea  ? " 

"  I  am  never  ill  at  sea,"  was  her  reply,  "  but  I  do 
not  really  like  it  ;  it  is  treacherous.  The  land  would 
satisfy  me  if — "    She  paused. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Falchion,—'  if  '  ? " 

<;  If  I  did  not  wish  to  travel,"  she  vaguely  added,  look- 
ing blandly  at  me. 

"  You  have  travelled  much  ?"  I  ventured. 

r'A  great  deal."    And  again  I  saw  that  scrutiny  in  her 


MRS.    FALCHION.  2  1 

eyes.     It  occurred  to  me  at  the  moment,  that  she  might 
think  I  possessed  some  previous  knowledge  of  her. 

My  mind  became  occupied  again  with  the  Interme- 
diate Passenger,  and  the  portrait  which  he  wore  about 
his  neck.  I  almost  laughed  to  think  of  the  melodra- 
matic turn  which  my  first  conversation  with  this  woman 
might  chance  to  take.  I  knew  that  I  was  dealing  with 
one  who  was  able  to  meet  cleverly  any  advance  of  mine, 
but  I  determined  to  lead  the  talk  into  as  deep  waters  as 
possible. 

"  I  suppose,  too,  you  are  a  good  practical  sailor  ;  that 
is,  you  understand  all  about  seamanship,  if  you  have 
travelled  much  ?  "  I  do  not  know  why  I  said  that,  for 
afterwards  it  sounded  foolish  to  me. 

"  Pretty  well,"  she  replied.  "  I  can  manage  a  sail,  I 
know  the  argot,  I  could  tell  the  shrouds  from  the  bul- 
warks, and  I've  rowed  a  boat  in  a  choppy  sea." 

"  It  is  not  an  accomplishment  usual  to  your  sex." 

"  It  was  ordinary  enough  where  I  spent  the  early  part 
of  my  life,"  was  the  idle  reply  ;  and  she  settled  herself 
more  comfortably  in  her  chair. 

"  Yes  ?  May  I  ask  you  where  that  was  ? "  and,  as  I 
said  this,  it  occurred  to  me  that  she  was,  perhaps,  leading 
me  on,  instead  of  my  leading  her ;  to  betray  me  as  to 
anything  I  knew  about  her. 

"  In  the  South  Seas,"  she  replied.  "  My  father  was  a 
British  Consul  in  the  Islands." 

"You  have  not  come  from  the  Islands  now,  I  sup- 
pose ? " 

"No,"  she  said,  a  little  more  softly.  "It  is  years 
since  I  was  in  Samoa.  ...  My  father  is  buried 
there." 

"  You  must  have  found  it  a  romantic  life  in  those  half- 
barbaric  places." 

She  shifted  in  her  chair.  "  Romantic  !  "  Her  tone 
conveyed  a  very  slight  uneasiness  and  vagueness.     "  I'm 


22  MRS.    FALCHION. 

afraid  you  must  ask  some  one  else  about  that  sort  of 
thing.  I  did  not  see  much  romance,  but  I  saw  plenty 
that  was  half-barbaric."     Here  she  laughed  slightly. 

Just  then  I  saw  the  lights  of  a  vessel  far  off.  "  See, 
a  vessel  !  "  I  said  ;  and  I  watched  the  lights  in  silence, 
but  thinking.  I  saw  that  she,  too,  was  watching  idly. 
At  length,  as  if  continuing  the  conversation,  I  said  : 
"  Yes,  I  suppose  life  must  be  somewhat  adventurous  and 
dangerous  among  savage  people  like  the  Samoans,  Ton- 
gans,  and  Fijians." 

"  Indeed,  then,"  she  replied,  decisively,  "  you  are  not 
to  suppose  anything  of  the  kind.  The  danger  is  not  for 
the  white  people,  but  for  the  savages." 

At  this  I  appeared,  as  I  really  was,  interested  ;  and 
begged  her  to  explain  what  she  meant.  She  thought  a 
moment,  and  then,  briefly  but  clearly,  sketched  the  life 
of  those  islands,  showing  how,  in  spite  of  missionary 
labor  selfish  and  unselfish,  the  native  became  the  victim 
of  civilization,  the  prey  of  the  white  trader  and  beach- 
comber, who  were  protected  by  men-of-war  with  con- 
vincing Nordenfeldt  and  Hotchkiss  guns  ;  how  the  stal- 
wart force  of  barbaric  existence  declined,  and  with  it  the 
crude  sense  of  justice,  the  practice  of  communism  at  its 
simplest  and  purest,  the  valor  of  nationality.  These 
phrases  are  my  own  ;  the  substance,  not  the  fashion,  of 
her  speech. 

"You  do  not,  then,"  I  said,  "believe  wholly  in  the 
unselfishness  of  missionaries,  the  fair  dealing  of  traders, 
and  the  impartiality  of  justice,  as  exhibited  through  steel- 
clad  cruisers  ? " 

"  I  have  seen  too  much  to  be  quite  fair  in  judgment,  I 
fear,  even  to  men-of-war's  men  ;  "  and  she  paused,  lis- 
tening to  a  song  which  came  from  the  after  part  of  the 
ship.  The  air  was  very  still,  and  a  few  of  the  words  of 
the  droll,  plaintive  ditty  came  to  us. 

Quartermaster  Stone,  as  he  passed  us,  hummed  it,  and 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


23 


some  voices  of  the  first-class  passengers  near  joined  in 
the  refrain  : 

"Sing,  hey,  for  a  rover  on  the  sea, 
And  the  old  world  !  r' 

Some  days  later  I  got  the  whole  song  from  one  of  the 
intermediate  passengers,  and  the  last  verse  of  it  I  give 
here  : 

"  Pm  a  sailin',  I'm  a  sailin'  on  the  sea, 
To  a  harbor  where  the  wind  is  still. 
Oh,  my  dearie,  do  you  wait  for  me  ? 

Oh,  my  dearie,  do  you  love  me  still  ? 
Sing,  hey,  for  a  rover  on  the  sea, 
And  the  old  world  ! " 

I  noticed  that  Mrs.  Falchion's  brow  contracted  as  the 
song  proceeded,  making  a  deep,  vertical  line  between  the 
eyes,  and  that  the  fingers  of  the  hand  nearest  me  closed 
on  the  chair-arm  firmly.  The  hand  attracted  me.  It 
was  long,  the  fingers  were  shapely,  but  not  markedly 
tapering,  and  suggested  firmness.  I  remarked  after- 
wards, when  I  chanced  to  shake  hands  with  her,  that  her 
fingers  enclosed  one's  hand  ;  it  was  not  a  mere  touch  or 
pressure,  but  an  unemotional  and  possessive  clasp.  I  felt 
sure  that  she  had  heard  the  song  before,  else  it  had  not 
produced  even  this  so  slight  effect  on  her  nerves.  I  said  : 
"  It  is  a  quaint  song.  I  suppose  you  are  familiar  with  it 
and  most  of  its  kind." 

"  I  fancy  I  have  heard  it  somewhere,"  she  answered  in 
a  cold  voice. 

I  am  aware  that  my  next  question  was  not  justified  by 
our  very  short  acquaintance,  but  this  acquaintance  had 
been  singular  from  its  beginning,  and  it  did  not  seem  at 
that  moment  as  it  looks  on  paper  ;  besides,  I  had  the 
Intermediate  Passenger  in  my  mind.  "  Perhaps  your 
husband  is  a  naval  man  ?  "  I  asked. 

A  faint  flush  passed  over  her  face,  and  then  looking  at 
me  with  a  neutral  expression  and  some  indolence  of  man- 
ner, she  replied  :  "  My  husband  was  not  a  naval  man." 


24  MRS.    FALCHION. 

She  said  " was  not"  That  implied  his  death.  There 
was  no  trouble  in  her  manner  ;  I  could  detect  no  sign  of 
excitement.  I  turned  to  look  at  the  lights  of  the  ap- 
proaching vessel,  and  there,  leaning  against  the  railing 
that  divided  the  two  decks,  was  the  Intermediate  Passen- 
ger. He  was  looking  at  us  intently.  A  moment  after 
he  disappeared.  Beyond  doubt  there  was  some  intimate 
association  between  these  two. 

My  thoughts  were,  however,  distracted  by  our  vessel 
signalling  the  other.  Hungerford  was  passing  just  then, 
and  I  said  :  "  Have  you  any  idea  what  vessel  it  is,  Hun- 
gerford ? " 

"  Yes ;  man-of-war  Porcupine,  bound  for  Aden,  I 
think." 

Mrs.  Falchion  at  this  laughed  strangely,  as  she  leaned 
forward,  looking,  and  then,  rising  quickly,  said  :  "  I  think 
I  will  walk." 

"  May  I  accompany  you  ?  "  I  asked. 

She  inclined  her  head,  and  we  joined  the  promenaders. 

The  band  was  playing,  and,  for  a  ship-band,  playing 
very  well,  the  ballet  music  of  Delibes's  Sylvia.  The 
musicians  had  caught  that  unaccentuated  and  sensuous 
swing  of  the  melody,  which  the  soft,  tropical  atmosphere 
rendered  still  more  languorous.  With  Mrs.  Falchion's 
hand  upon  my  arm,  I  felt  a  sense  of  capitulation  to  the 
music  and  to  her,  uncanny  in  its  suddenness  ;  at  this 
distance  of  time  it  seems  to  me  absurd.  I  had  expe- 
rienced something  of  the  same  feeling  once  with  the  hand 
of  a  young  medical  student,  who,  skilled  in  thought  read- 
ing, discovered  the  number  of  a  bank  note  that  I  had  in 
my  mind. 

This  woman  had  an  attractiveness  compelling  and 
delightful,  at  least  in  its  earlier  application  to  me.  Both 
professionally  and  socially  I  have  been  brought  into  con- 
tact with  women  of  beauty  and  grace,  but  never  one  who, 
like  Mrs.  Falchion,  being  beautiful,  seemed  so  uncon- 


MRS.    FALCHION.  25 

scious  of  the  fact,  so  indifferent  to  those  about  her,  so  un- 
touched by  another's  emotion,  so  lacking  in  sensitiveness 
of  heart,  and  who  still  drew  people  irresistibly  to  her. 
I  am  speaking  now  of  the  earlier  portion  of  our  acquaint- 
ance, and  of  her  as  she  was  up  to  this  period  in  her  life. 

I  was  not  alone  in  this  opinion  of  her,  for,  as  time 
went  on,  every  presentable  man  and  woman  on  the  boat 
was  introduced  to  her ;  and  if  some  women  criticised  her 
and  some  disliked  her,  ail  acknowledged  her  talent  and 
her  imperial  attraction.  Among  the  men  her  name  was 
never  spoken  but  with  reserve  and  respect,  and  her  after- 
noon-teas were  like  a  little  court.  She  had  no  compro- 
mising tenderness  of  manner  for  man  or  woman  ;  she 
ruled,  yet  was  unapproachable  through  any  avenues  of 
sentiment.  She  had  a  quiet  aplo?nb,  which  would  be 
called  sang  froid  in  a  man. 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  Spanish-Mexican  woman  dance  ? " 
she  said  in  one  of  the  pauses  of  the  music. 

"  Never.  Never  any  good  dancing,  save  what  one 
gets  at  a  London  theatre." 

"  That  is  graceful,"  she  said,  "  but  not  dancing.  You 
have  heard  of  music  stirring  the  blood,  of  savage  races 
and  others  working  themselves  up  to  ecstatic  fury  ? 
Maybe  you  have  seen  the  Dervishes,  or  the  Sioux,  or  the 
Australian  aboriginals  ?  No  ?  Well,  I  have  ;  and  I  have 
seen,  which  is  so  much  more,  those  Spanish-Mexican 
women  dance.  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  thrilling, 
so  splendid,  that  you  felt  you  must  possess  it?"  She 
asked  me  that  with  her  hand  upon  my  arm  !  "  Well, 
that's  it.  I  have  felt  that  way  towards  a  horse  which 
has  won  a  great  race,  and  to  a  woman  who  has  carried 
me  with  her,  through  the  fantastic  drama  of  her  dance, 
until  she  stood  at  the  climax,  head  thrown  back,  face 
glowing,  a  statue.  It  is  grand  to  be  eloquent  like  that, 
not  in  words,  but  in  person." 

In   this   was  the  key  to  her  own  nature.      Body  and 


26  MRS.    FALCHION. 

mind,  she  was  free  from  ordinary  morbidness,  unless  her 
dislike  of  all  suffering  was  morbid.  With  her  this  was 
the  hatred  of  any  shock  to  the  senses.  She  was  selfish 
at  all  points. 

These  conclusions  were  pursued  at  the  expense  of 
speech  on  my  part.  At  first  she  did  not  appear  to  mind 
my  silence.  She  seemed  to  have  thoughts  of  her  own  ; 
but  she  shook  them  off  with  a  little  firm  motion  of  the 
shoulders,  and,  with  the  assumption  of  an  almost  child- 
like manner  and  a  fine  insouciance,  said  :  "  Well,  amuse 
me." 

"  Amuse  you  ?  "  was  my  reply  ;  "  delighted  to  do  so  if 
I  can.     How  ?  " 

"  Talk  to  me,"  was  the  quick  response. 

"  Would  that  accomplish  the  purpose  ?  "  This,  in  a 
tone  of  mock  protest. 

"  Please  don't  be  foolish,  Dr.  Marmion.  I  dislike  hav- 
ing to  explain.     Tell  me  things." 

"  About  what  ?  " 

"  Oh,  about  yourself  !  About  people  you  have  met, 
and  all  that  ;  for  I  suppose  you  have  seen  a  good  deal 
and  lived  a  good  deal." 

"  About  hospital  cases  ?  "  I  asked  a  little  maliciously. 

"  No,  please,  no  !  I  abhor  everything  that  is  sick  and 
poor  and  miserable." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  at  idle  venture,  "  if  not  a  hospital,  what 
about  a  jail  ?  " 

I  felt  the  hand  on  my  arm  twitch  slightly,  and  then 
her  reply  came  :  "  I  said  I  hated  everything  that  was 
wretched  and  wicked.  You  are  either  dense  or  purposely 
irritating." 

"  Well,  then,  a  college  ?  " 

"  A  college  ?  Yes,  that  sounds  better.  But  I  don't 
want  descriptions  about  being  '  gated  '  or  '  sent  down  '  or 
'ploughed,'  and  that  kind  of  commonplace.  I  should 
prefer,  unless  your  vanity  leads  you   irresistibly  in  that 


MRS.    FALCHION.  27 

direction,  something  with  mature  life  and  amusement ; 
or,  at  least,  life  and  incident  and  good  sport,  if  you 
don't  dwell  viciously  on  the  horrors  of  killing." 

On  the  instant  there  came  to  me  the  remembrance  of 
Professor  Valiant's  wife.  I  think  it  was  not  what  she 
wanted,  but  I  had  a  purpose,  and  I  began  : — "  Every  one 
at  St.  Luke  s  admired  and  respected  Professor  Valiant's 
wife,  she  was  so  frank,  cordial,  and  prettily  down-right. 
In  our  rooms  we  all  called  her  a  good  chap,  and  a 
dashed  good  chap  when  her  husband  happened  to  be 
rustier  than  usual.  He  was  our  professor  in  science. 
It  was  the  general  belief  that  he  chose  science  for  his  life- 
work,  because  it  gave  unusual  opportunities  for  torture. 
He  was  believed  to  be  a  devoted  vivisectionist ;  he  cer- 
tainly had  methods  of  mental  and  domestic  cruelty,  mas- 
terly in  their  ingenuity.  He  could  make  a  whole  class 
raw  with  punishment  in  a  few  words,  and  many  a  scorch- 
ing bit  of  Latin  verse  was  written  about  his  hook  nose 
and  fishy  eye. 

"  But  his  highest  talents  in  this  direction  were  reserved 
for  his  wife.  His  distorted  idea  of  his  own  importance 
made  him  view  her  as  a  chattel,  an  inferior  being ;  the 
more  so,  I  believe,  because  she  brought  him  little  money 
when  he  married  her.  She  was  too  much  the  woman  to 
pretend  to  kneel  to  him,  and  because  she  would  not  be 
his  slave,  she  had  a  hard  time  of  it.  He  began  by  insist- 
ing that  she  should  learn  science,  in  order  that  she 
might  assist  him  in  his  experiments.  She  knew  that  she 
had  no  taste  for  it,  that  it  was  no  part  of  her  wifely  duty, 
and  she  did  what  suited  her  better— followed  the  hounds. 
It  was  a  picture  to  see  her  riding  across  country.  She 
could  take  a  fence  with  a  sound  hunter  like  a  bird. 
And  so  it  happened  that,  after  a  time,  they  went  their 
own  way  pretty  well  ;  he  ignoring  her,  neglecting  her, 
deprecating  her  by  manner  if  not  by  speech,  and  mak- 
ing her  life  more  than  uncomfortable. 


28  MRS.    FALCHION. 

"  She  was  always  kind  to  me.  I  was  the  youngest  chap 
in  the  college,  and  was  known  as  '  Marmy  '  by  every 
one  ;  and  because  I  was  fonder  of  science  than  most 
other  men  in  the  different  years,  Valiant  was  more 
gracious  to  me  than  the  rest,  though  I  didn't  like  him. 
One  day  when  I  called,  I  heard  her  say  to  him,  not 
knowing  that  I  was  near  :  '  Whatever  you  feel,  or  how- 
ever you  act  towards  me  in  private,  I  will  have  respect 
when  others  are  present.' 

"  It  was  the  custom  for  the  professors  to  invite  each 
student  to  lunch  or  dinner  once  during  term-time. 
Being  somewhat  of  a  favorite  of  both  Professor  Valiant 
and  his  wife  however,  I  lunched  with  them  often.  I 
need  hardly  say  that  I  should  not  have  exceeded  the 
regulation  once,  had  it  not  been  for  Mrs.  Valiant.  The 
last  time  /  went  is  as  clear  in  my  memory  as  if  it  were 
yesterday.  Valiant  was  more  satirical  and  cold-blooded 
than  usual.  I  noticed  a  kind  of  shining  hardness  in  his 
wife's  eyes,  which  gave  me  a  strange  feeling  ;  yet  she 
was  talkative  and  even  gay,  I  thought,  while  I  more  than 
once  clenched  my  fist  under  the  table,  so  much  did  I 
want  to  pummel  him  ;  for  I  was  a  lover  of  hers  in  a 
deferential,  boyish  way. 

"  At  last,  knowing  that  she  liked  the  hunt,  I  asked  her 
if  she  was  going  to  the  meet  on  the  following  Satur- 
day, saying  that  I  intended  to  follow,  having  been 
offered  a  horse.  With  a  steely  ring  to  her  voice,  and  a 
further  brightening  of  the  eyes,  she  said  :  '  You're  a 
stout  little  sportsman,  Marmy.  Yes,  I  am  going  on 
Major  Karney's  big  horse,  Carbine.' 

"  Valiant  looked  up,  half  sneering,  half  doubtful,  I 
thought,  and  rejoined  :  '  Carbine  is  a  valuable  horse,  and 
the  fences  are  stiff  in  the  Garston  country.' 

"  She  smiled  gravely  ;  then,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  her 
husband,  said  :  '  Carbine  is  a  perfect  gentleman.  He'll 
do  what  I  ask  him.     I  have  ridden  him.' 


MRS.    FALCHION.  29 

"  '  The  devil  you  have  ! '  he  replied. 

"  '  I  am  sure,'  said  I,  as  I  hoped,  bravely,  and  not 
a  little  enthusiastically,  '  that  Carbine  would  take  any 
fence  you  asked  him.' 

"  *  Or  not,  as  the  case  might  be.  Thank  you,  Marmy, 
for  the  compliment,'  said  she. 

"  '  A  Triton  among  minnows,'  remarked  Valiant,  not 
entirely  under  his  breath.  '  Horses  obey,  and  freshmen 
admire,  and  there  is  no  end  to  her  greatness.' 

"  '  There  is  an  end  to  everything,  Edward,'  she  re- 
marked, a  shade  sadly  and  quietly. 

"  He  turned  to  me  and  said  :  '  Science  is  a  great  study, 
Marmion,  but  it  is  sardonic  too  ;  for  you  shall  find  that 
when  you  reduce  even  a  Triton  to  its  original  ele- 
ments  ' 

" '  Oh,  please  let  me  finish  ! '  she  interrupted  softly,  '  I 
know  the  lecture  so  well.  It  reads  this  way  :  "  The  place 
of  generation  must  break  to  give  place  to  the  generated; 
but  the  influence  spreads  out  beyond  the  fragments,  and  is 
greater  thus  than  in  the  mass  ;  neither  matter  nor  mind 
can  be  destroyed.  The  earth  was  molten  before  it  became 
cold  rock  and  quiet  world:'  There,  you  see,  Marmy, 
I'm  a  fellow-student  of  yours.' 

"  Valiant's  eyes  were  ugly  to  see  ;  for  she  had  quoted 
from  a  lecture  of  his,  delivered  to  us  that  week.  After 
an  instant  he  said  with  slow  maliciousness  :  '  O  ye  gods, 
render  me  worthy  of  this  Portia,  and  teach  her  to  do  as 
Brutus's  Portia  did,  ad  eternum  !  ' 

"  She  shuddered  a  little,  then  said  very  graciously,  and 
as  if  he  had  meant  nothing  but  kindness  :  '  "  Beggar  that 
I  am,  I  am  even  poor  in  thanks."  I  will  leave  you  to 
your  cigarettes  ;  and  because  I  must  go  out  soon,  and 
shall  not,  I  fear,  see  you  again  this  afternoon,  good-by, 
Marmy,  till  Saturday— till  Saturday.'     And  she  left  us. 

"  I  was  white  and  trembling  with  anger.  He  smiled 
coolly,  and   was  careful  to  choose  me  one  of  his  best 


30  MRS.    FALCHION. 

cigars,  saying  as  he  handed  it :  '  Conversation  is  a  science, 
Marmion  ;  study  it.  There  is  solid  satisfaction  in  it  ; 
it's  the  only  art  that  brings  instant  pleasure  ;  like  the 
stage,  it  gets  its  immediate  applause.' 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Valiant  did  ride  Carbine  on  that  Satur- 
day. Such  a  scene  it  was  !  I  see  it  now — the  mottled 
plump  of  hounds  upon  the  scent  ;  the  bright  sun  showing 
upon  the  scarlet  coats  of  the  whips  gloriously  ;  the  long 
stride  of  the  hunters,  ears  back  and  quarters  down. 
She  rode  Carbine,  and  the  fences  were  stiff — so  stiff  that 
I  couldn't  have  taken  half  of  them.  Afterwards  I  was 
not  sorry  that  I  couldn't  ;  for  she  rode  for  a  fall  that  day 
on  Carbine,  her  own  horse, — she  had  bought  him  of 
Major  Karney  a  few  days  before, — and  I  heard  her  last 
words  as  she  lay  beside  him,  smiling  through  the  dread- 
ful whiteness  of  her  lips.  '  Good-by,  Marmy,'  she 
whispered,  '  Carbine  and  I  go  together  ;  it's  better  so,  in 
the  full  cry  and  a  big  held.  Tell  all  the  men  at  Luke's 
that  I  hope  they'll  pass  at  the  coming  exams.  .  .  . 
I'm  going  up  for  my  final — Marmy — I  wonder — if  I'll — 
pass :  '  and  then  the  words  froze  on  her  lips. 

"  It  was  persecution  that  did  it  ;  diabolical  persecution 
and  selfishness.  That  was  the  worst  day  the  college  ever 
knew.  At  the  funeral,  when  the  Provost  read  :  l  For 
that  it  hath  pleased  Thee  to  deliver  this  our  sister  out  of  the 
miseries  of  this  sinful  world,'  Big  Wallington,  the  wildest 
chap  among  the  grads,  led  off  with  a  gulp  in  his  throat, 
and  we  all  followed.  And  that  gold-spectacled  sneak 
stood  there  with  a  lying  white  handkerchief  at  his  eyes. 

"  I  laid  myself  out  to  make  the  college  too  hot  for 
him.  In  a  week  I  had  every  man  in  the  place  with  me, 
and  things  came  to  such  a  pass  that  all  of  us  must  be 
sent  down,  or  Valiant  resign.  He  resigned.  He  found 
another  professorship,  but  the  thing  followed  him,  and  he 
was  obliged  to  leave  the  country." 

When  I  finished  the  story,  Mrs.  Falchion  was  silent  for 


MRS.    FALCHION.  3  I 

a  time,  then,  with  a  slight  air  of  surprise,  and  in  a  quite 
critical  way,  she  said  :  "  I  should  think  you  would  act  very 
well,  if  you  used  less  emotion.  Mrs.  Valiant  had  a  kind 
of  courage,  but  she  was  foolish  to  die.  She  should  have 
stayed  and  fought  him — fought  him  every  way,  until  she 
was  his  master.  She  could  have  done  it ;  she  was  clever, 
I  should  think.  Still,  if  she  had  to  die,  it  was  better  to  go 
with  a  good  horse  that  way.  I  think  I  would  prefer  to 
go  swiftly,  suddenly,  but  without  the  horror  of  blood  and 
bruises  and  that  sort  of  thing.  ...  I  should  like  to 
meet  Professor  Valiant.  He  was  hard,  but  he  was  strong 
too.  .  .  .  But  haven't  we  had  enough  of  horror?  I 
asked  you  to  amuse  me,  and  you  have  merely  interested 

me  instead.     Oh  ! " 

This  exclamation,  I  thought,  was  caused  by  the  voice 
of  the  quartermaster  humming  : 

"  I'm  a  sailin',  I'm  a  sailin'  on  the  sea, 
To  a  harbor  where  the  wind  is  still." 

Almost  immediately  she  said  :  "  I  think  I  will  go 
below."  Then,  after  a  slight  pause  :  "This  is  a  liberal 
acquaintance  for  one  day,  Dr.  Marmion  ;  and,  you  know, 
we  were  not  introduced  !  " 

"  No,  Mrs.  Falchion,  we  were  not  introduced,  but  I 
am  in  some  regards  your  host ;  and  I  fear  we  should  all 
be  very  silent  if  we  waited  for  regular  introductions 
here.  The  acquaintance  gives  me  pleasure,  but  it  is  not 
nearly  so  liberal  as  I  hope  it  may  become." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  smiled  at  me  over  her  shoulder 
as  she  passed  down  the  staircase,  and  the  next  instant  I 
could  have  bitten  my  tongue  for  playing  the  cavalier  as 
I  had  done  ;  for  showing,  as  I  think  I  did,  that  she  had 
an  influence  over  me — an  influence  peculiar  to  herself, 
and  difficult  to  account  for  when  not  in  her  presence. 

I  sat  down,  lit  a  cigar,  and  went  over  in  my  mind  all 
that  had  been  said  between  us  ;  all  that  had  occurred  in 
3 


32  MRS.    FALCHION. 

my  cabin  after  dinner  ;  every  minute  since  we  left  Co- 
lombo was  laid  bare  to  its  minutest  detail.  Lascars 
slipped  by  me  in  the  half  darkness  ;  the  voices  of  two 
lovers  near,  alternated  with  their  expressive  silences  ;  and 
from  the  music-saloon  there  came  the  pretty  strains  of  a 
minuet,  played  very  deftly.  Under  the  influence  of  this 
music  my  thoughts  became  less  exact  ;  they  drifted.  My 
eyes  shifted  to  the  lights  of  the  Porcupine  in  the  distance* 
and  from  them  again  to  the  figures  passing  and  repassing 
me  on  the  deck.  The  "  All's  Well !  "  of  the  lookout  seemed 
to  come  from  an  endless  distance  ;  the  swish  of  water 
against  the  dividing  hull  of  the  Fulvia  sounded  like  a 
call  to  silence  from  another  world  ;  the  phosphorence 
swimming  through  the  jarred  waters  added  to  the  sensa- 
tion of  unreality  and  dreams.  These  dreams  grew  till 
they  were  broken  by  a  hand  placed  upon  my  shoulder, 
and  I  saw  that  one  of  the  passengers,  Clovelly,  an  Eng- 
lish novelist,  had  dropped  out  from  the  promenade  to 
talk  with  me.  He  saw  my  mood,  however,  and  said 
quietly  :  "  Give  me  a  light  for  my  cigar,  will  you  ?  Then, 
astride  this  stool,  I'll  help  you  to  make  inventory  of  the 
rest  of  them.  A  pretty  study  ;  for,  at  our  best,  '  What 
fools  we  mortals  be  !  '  " 

"  '  Motley  is  the  only  wear,'  "  was  my  reply  ;  and  for 
a  full  half  hour,  which,  even  for  a  man,  is  considerable, 
we  spoke  no  word,  but  only  nodded  when  some  one  of 
the  promenaders  noticed  us.  There  was  a  bookmaker 
fresh  from  the  Melbourne  races  ;  an  American, — Colonel 
Ryder,— whose  eloquence  had  carried  him  round  the 
world  ;  a  stalwart  squatter  from  Queensland  ;  a  pretty 
widow  who  had  left  her  husband  under  the  sods  of  Tas- 
mania ;  a  brace  of  girls  going  to  join  their  lovers  and 
be  married  in  England  ;  a  few  officers  fleeing  from  India 
with  their  livers  and  their  lives  ;  a  family  of  four  lanky 
lasses  travelling  "  home  "  to  school  ;  a  row  of  affable 
ladies  who  alternated  between  envy  and  gaiety,  and  de- 


MRS.    FALCHION.  3^ 

light  in,  and  criticism  of,  their  husbands  ;  a  couple  of 
missionaries  preparing  to  give  us  lectures  on  the  infam- 
ous gods  of  the  heathen  (which,  poor,  harmless  little 
creatures  !  might  be  bought  at  a  few  annas  a  pint  at  Aden 
or  Colombo),  and  the  Exodus  and  the  Pharaohs pleas- 
ures reserved  for  the  Red  Sea  ;  a  commercial  traveller 
who  arranged  theatricals,  and  cast  himself  for  all  the  prin- 
cipal parts  ;  a  humorous  and  naive  person  who  industri- 
ously hinted  at  the  opulence  of  his  estates  in  Ireland  ; 
two  stately  English  ladies  of  title  ;  the  inevitable  array 
of  colonial  knights  and  judges  off  to  Europe  for  a  holi- 
day ;  and  many  others  who  made  little  worlds  unto 
themselves,  called  cliques  by  blunt  people. 

"To  my  mind,  the  most  interesting  persons  on  the 
ship,"  said  Clovelly,  at  last,  "are  the  bookmaker,  Miss 
Treherne,  and  the  lady  with  whom  you  have  just  been 
talking — an  exceptional  type." 

"  An  unusual  woman,  I  fancy,"  was  my  reply.  "But 
which  is  Miss  Treherne  ?  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  quite 
sure. " 

He  described  her  and  her  father,  with  whom  I  had 
talked — a  London  Q.  C,  travelling  for  his  health,  a  not- 
able man,  with  a  taste  for  science,  who  spent  his  idle 
hours  in  reading  astronomy  and  the  plays  of  the  Euri- 
pides. 

"  Why  not  include  the  father  in  the  list  of  the  most 
interesting  persons  ?  "  I  questioned. 

"  Because  I  have  met  many  men  like  him,  but  no  one 
quite  like  his  daughter  or  Mrs. What  is  her  name  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Falchion." 

"  — or  Mrs.  Falchion  or  the  bookmaker. " 

"  What  is  there  so  uncommon  about  Miss  Treherne  ? 
She  has  not  struck  me  as  being  remarkable." 

"  No  ?  Well,  of  course,  she  is  not  striking  in  the 
manner  of  Mrs.  Falchion.  But  watch  her,  study  her,  and 
you  will   find  her  to    be  the  perfection  of  a  type  ;  the 


34  MRS.    FALCHION. 

finest  expression  of  a  decorous  convention  ;  a  perfect 
product  of  social  conservatism  ;  unaffected,  cheerful, 
sensitive,  composed,  very  talented,  altogether  compan- 
ionable." 

"  Excuse  me,"  I  said  laughing,  though  I  was  im- 
pressed ;  "  that  sounds  as  if  you  had  been  writing  about 
her  and  applying  to  her  the  novelist's  system  of  analysis, 
which  makes  an  imperfect  individual  a  perfect  type. 
Now,  frankly,  are  you  speaking  of  Miss  Treherne,  or  of 
some  one  of  whom  she  is  the  outline,  as  it  were  ? " 

Clovelly  turned  and  looked  at  me  steadily.  "  When 
you  consider  a  patient,"  he  said,  "do  you  arrange  a 
diagnosis  of  a  type  or  of  a  person  ?  And  by  the  way, 
i  type  '  is  a  priggish  word." 

"  Of  the  person." 

"  Exactly.  The  person  is  the  thing.  That  clears  up 
the  matter  of  business  and  art.  But  now,  as  to  Miss 
Treherne.  I  want  to  say,  that,  having  been  admitted  to 
her  acquaintance  and  that  of  her  father,  I  have  thought  of 
them  only  as  friends, and  not  as  '  characters  '  or  '  copy.'" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Clovelly,"  said  I ;  "  I  might 
have  known." 

"  Now,  to  prove  how  magnanimous  I  am,  I  shall  intro- 
duce you  to  Miss  Treherne,  if  you  will  let  me.  You've 
met  her  father,  I  suppose  ?  "  he  said,  and  tossed  his 
cigar  overboard. 

"  Yes,  I  have  talked  with  him.  He  is  a  courteous  and 
able  man,  I  should  think." 

We  rose.  Presently  he  continued  :  "  See,  Miss  Tre- 
herne is  sitting  there  with  the  Tasmanian  widow.  What 
is  her  name  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Callendar,"  I  replied.  "  Blackburn  the  Queens- 
lander  is  joining  them." 

"So  much  the  better,"  he  said.     "  Come  on." 

As  we  passed  the  music-saloon,  we  paused  for  an  in- 
stant to  look  through  the  porthole  at  a  pale-faced  girl 


MRS.    FALCHION.  35 

with  big  eyes  and  a  wonderful  bright  red  dress, — while  ar 
excitable  bear-leader  turned  her  music  for  her, — singing 
"The  Angels' Serenade."  Near  her  stood  a  mnky  girl 
who  adored  actors  and  singers,  and  lived  in  the  hope  of 
meeting  some  of  those  gentlemen  of  the  footlights  who 
plough  their  way  so  calmly  through  the  hearts  of  maidens 
fresh  from  school. 

We  drew  back  to  go  on  towards  Miss  Treherne,  when 
Hungerford  touched  me  on  the  arm  and  said  :  "  I  want 
to  see  you  for  a  little  while,  Marmion,  if  Mr.  Clovelly 
will  excuse  you." 

I  saw  by  Hungerford's  face  that  he  had  something  of 
importance  to  say,  and,  linking  my  arm  in  his,  I  went 
with  him  to  his  cabin,  which  was  near  those  of  the  inter- 
mediate passengers. 


CHAPTER    III. 

A    TALE    OF    NO    MAN'S    SEA. 

Inside  the  cabin  Hungerford  closed  the  door,  gripped 
me  by  the  arm,  and  then  handed  me  a  cheroot,  with  the 
remark  :  "  My  pater  gave  them  to  me  last  voyage  home. 
Have  kept  'em  in  tea."  And  then  he  added,  with  no 
appearance  of  consecutiveness  :  "Hang  the  bally  ship, 
anyway  !  " 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  tone  down  the  crudeness  of 
Hungerford's  language.  It  contents  me  to  think  that 
the  solidity  of  his  •  character  and  his  worth  will  appear 
even  through  the  crust  of  free-and-easy  idioms,  as  they 
will  certainly  be  seen  in  his  acts  ;— he  was  sound  at  heart, 
and  true  as  steel. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Hungerford  ?  "  I  asked,  lighting 
the  cheroot. 

"  Every  thing  's  the  matter.  Captain  with  his  nose  in 
the  air,  and  trusting  all  round  to  his  officers.     First  offi- 


36  MRS.    FALCHION. 

cer  no  good  ;  never  any  use  since  they  poured  the  coal 
on  him.  Purser  ought  to  be  on  a  Chinese  junk.  Second, 
third,  fourth  officers,  first-rate  chaps,  but  so-so  sailors. 
Doctor  frivolling  with  a  lovely  filly,  pedigree  not  known. 
. — Why,  confound  it !  nobody  takes  this  business  seriously 
except  the  captain,  and  he  sits  on  a  golden  throne.  He 
doesn't  know  that  in  any  real  danger  this  swagger  craft 
would  be  filled  with  foolishness.  There  isn't  more  than 
one  good  boat's  crew  onboard, — sailors,  Lascars,  stewards, 
and  all.  As  for  the  officers,  if  the  surgeon  would  leave 
the  lovely  ladies  to  themselves,  he  would  find  cases  worth 
treating  and  duties  worth  doing.  He  should  keep  himself 
fit  for  shocks.  And  he  can  take  my  word  for  it, — for  I've 
been  at  sea  since  I  was  a  kid,  worse  luck! — that  a  man 
with  anything  to  do  on  a  ship  ought  to  travel  every  day, 
nose  out  for  shipwreck  next  day,  and  so  on,  port  to  port 
Ship  surgeons,  as  well  as  all  other  officers,  weren't  or- 
dained to  follow  after  cambric  skirts  and  lace  handker- 
chiefs at  sea.  Believe  me  or  not  as  you  like,  but  for  a 
man  having  work  to  do,  woman,  lovely  woman,  is  rocks. 
Now,  I  suppose  you'll  think  I'm  insolent,  for  I'm 
younger  than  you  are,  Marmion  ;  but  you  know  what  a 
rough-and-tumble  fellow  I  am,  and  you'll  not  mind." 

"Well,  Hungerford,"  I  said,  "to  what  does  this 
lead  ? " 

"To  Number  116  Intermediate,  for  one  thing.  It's 
letting  off  steam  for  another.  I  tell  you,  Marmion,  these 
big  ships  are  too  big.  There  are  those  canvas  boats  : 
they  won't  work  ;  you  can't  get  them  together  ;  you 
couldn't  launch  one  in  an  hour.  And  as  for  the  use 
of  the  others,  the  Lascars  would  melt  like  snow  in  any 
real  danger.  There's  about  one  decent  boat's  crew  on 
this  ship,  no  more.  .  .  .  There,  I've  unburdened 
myself  ;  I  feel  better."  Presently  he  added,  with  a  shake 
of  the  head  :  "  See  here,  now-a-days  we  trust  too  much 
to  machinery  and  chance,  and   not  enough  to  skill  of 


MRS.    FALCHION.  37 

hand  and  brain-stuff.  I'd  like  to  show  you  some  of  the 
crews  I've  had  in  the  Pacific  and  the  China  Sea — but  I'm 
at  it  again  !  I'll  now  come,  Marmion,  to  the  real  reason 
why  I've  brought  you  here.  .  .  .  Number  116  Inter- 
mediate is  under  the  weather.  I  found  him  reeling  in 
the  passage.  I  helped  him  into  his  cabin.  He  said  he'd 
been  to  you  to  get  medicine,  and  you'd  given  him  some. 
Now,  the  strange  part  of  the  business  is,  I  know  him. 
He  didn't  remember  me,  however, — perhaps  because  he 
didn't  get  a  good  look  at  me.  Coincidences  are  strange 
things.  I  can  point  to  a  dozen  in  my  short  life,  everyone 
as  remarkable,  if  not  startling,  as  this.  Here,  I'll  spin 
you  a  yarn  : — 

"  It  happened  four  years  ago.  I  had  a  moustache  then, 
was  fat  like  a  whale,  and  first  mate  on  the  Dancing  Kate, 
a  pearler  in  the  Indian  Ocean,  between  Java  and  Aus- 
tralia. That  was  sailing,  mind  you  ;  real  seamanship  ; 
no  bally  nonsense  ;  a  fight  every  weather  ;  interesting  all 
around.  If  it  wasn't  a  deadly  calm,  it  was  a  typhoon  ; 
if  it  wasn't  either,  'twas  want  of  food  and  water.  I've 
seen  us  with  pearls  on  board  worth  a  thousand  quid,  and 
not  a  drop  of  water  nor  three  square  meals  in  the 
caboose.  But  that  was  life  for  men  and  not  Miss 
Nancys.  If  they  weren't  saints,  they  were  sailors,  afraid 
of  nothing  but  God  Almighty ;  and  they  do  respect  Him 
even  when  they  curse  the  winds  and  the  sea.  Well,  one 
day  we  were  lying  in  the  open  sea,  about  two  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  from  Port  Darwin.  There  wasn't  a 
breath  of  air.  The  sea  was  like  glass.  The  sun  was 
drawing  turpentine  out  of  every  inch  of  the  Dancing  Kate. 
The  world  was  one  great  blister.  There  wasn't  a  com- 
fortable spot  in  the  craft,  and  all  round  us  was  that  star- 
ing oily  sea.  It  was  too  hot  to  smoke,  and  I  used  to  make 
a  Sede  boy  do  my  smoking  for  me.  I  got  the  benefit 
of  the  smell  without  any  work.  I  was  lying  under  the 
droop  of  a  dinghey,  making  the  Sede  boy  call  on  all 


38  MRS.    FALCHION. 

his  gods  for  wind,  with  interludes  of  smoke,  when  he 
chucked  his  deities  and  tobacco,  and,  pointing,  shouted  : 
<  Man  !    Man  ! ' 

"  I  snatched  a  spy-glass.  Sure  enough,  there  was  a 
boat  on  the  water.  It  was  moving  ever  so  slowly.  It 
seemed  to  stop,  and  we  saw  something  lifted  and  waved  ; 
then  all  was  still  again.  I  got  a  boat's  crew  together, 
and  away  we  went  in  that  deadly  smother.  An  hour's 
row  and  we  got  within  hail  of  the  derelict  ;  as  one  of 
the  crew  said,  '  feelin'  as  if  the  immortal  life  was  jerked 
out  of  us.'  The  dinghey  lay  there  deadly  still  on  the 
glassy  surface.  Yet  I  had,  as  I  said,  seen  something 
waved.  The  water  didn't  even  lap  its  sides.  It  was 
ghostly,  I  can  tell  you.  Our  oars  licked  the  water, 
they  didn't  attack  it.  Now  I'm  going  to  tell  you  some- 
thing, Marmion,  that'll  make  you  laugh.  I  don't  think 
I've  any  poetry  in  me,  but  just  then  I  thought  of  some 
verses  I  learned  when  I  was  a  little  chap  at  Wellington, — 
a  devilishly  weird  thing.  It  came  to  me  at  that  moment 
like  a  word  in  my  ear.  It  made  me  feel  for  a  second 
awkward.  All  sailors  are  superstitious,  you  know.  I'm 
superstitious  about  this  ship.  Never  mind.  I'll  tell  you 
the  verses,  to  show  you  what  a  queer  thing  memory  is. 
The  poem  was  called  '  No  Man's  Sea.' 

"The  days  are  dead  in  the  No  Man's  Sea, 
And  God  has  left  it  alone  ; 
The  angels  cover  their  heads  and  flee, 
And  the  wild  four  winds  have  flown. 

"There's  never  a  ripple  upon  the  tide, 
There's  never  a  word  or  sound  ; 
But  over  the  waste  the  white  wraiths  glide, 
To  look  for  the  souls  of  the  drowned. 

"  The  No  Man's  Sea  is  a  jail  of  souls. 
And  its  gate  is  a  burning  sun, 
And  deep  beneath  it  a  great  bell  tolls 
For  a  death  that  never  is  done. 


MRS     FAT.CHION.  39 

"  Alas  !  fcr  any  that  comes  anear, 
That  lies  on  its  moveless  breast  ; 
The  grumbling  water  shall  be  his  bier, 
And  never  a  place  of  rest. 

w  There's  four  of  the  verses.  I  made  a  motion  to  stop 
the  rowing,  and  was  mum  for  a  minute.  The  men  got 
nervous.  They  looked  at  the  boat  in  front  of  us,  and 
then  turned  round,  as  if  to  see  if  the  Dancing  Kate  was 
still  in  sight.  I  spoke,  and  they  got  more  courage.  I 
stood  up  in  the  boat,  but  could  see  nothing  in  the 
dinghey.  I  gave  a  sign  to  go  on.  Soon  we  were 
alongside.  In  the  bottom  of  the  dinghey  lay  a  man, 
apparently  dead,  wearing  the  clothes  of  a  convict.  One 
of  the  crew  gave  a  grunt  of  disgust,  the  others  said 
nothing.  I  don't  take  to  men  often,  and  to  convicts 
precious  seldom  ;  but  there  was  a  look  in  this  man's 
face  which  the  prison  clothes  couldn't  demoralize — a 
damned  pathetic  look,  which  seemed  to  say,  'Not  guilty.' 

"  In  a  minute  I  was  beside  him,  and  found  he  wasn't 
dead.  Brandy  brought  him  round  a  little,  but  he  was 
a  bit  gone  in  the  head,  and  muttering  all  the  way- 
back  to  the  ship.  I  unbuttoned  his  shirt,  and  I  saw  on 
his  breast  a  little  ivory  portrait  of  a  woman.  I  didn't 
let  the  crew  see  it  ;  for  the  fellow,  even  in  his  delirium, 
appeared  to  know  I  had  exposed  the  thing,  and  drew  the 
linen  close  in  his  fingers,  and  for  a  long  time  held  it  so." 

"  What  was  the  woman's  face  like,  Hungerford  ?  "  I 
asked. 

He  parried,  remarking  only  that  she  had  the  face  of  a 
lady,  and  was  handsome. 

I  pressed  him.  "  But  did  it  resemble  any  one  you  had 
ever  seen  ? " 

With  a  slight  droop  to  his  eyelids,  he  said  :  "  Don't  ask 
foolish  questions,  Marmion.  .  .  .  Well,  the  castaway 
had  a  hard  pull  for  life.  He  wouldn't  have  lived  at  all, 
if  a  breeze  hadn't  come  up  and  let  us  get  away  to  the 


40  MRS.    FALCHION. 

coast.  It  was  the  beginning  of  the  monsoon,  and  we 
went  bowling  down  towards  Port  Darwin,  a  crowd  of 
Malay  proas  in  our  wake.  However,  the  poor  beggar 
thought  he  was  going  to  die,  and  one  night  he  told  me 
his  story.  He  was  an  escaped  convict  from  Fremantle, 
Western  Australia.  He  had,  with  others,  been  taken  up 
to  the  northern  coast  to  do  some  government  work,  and 
had  escaped  in  the  dinghey.  His  crime  was  stealing 
funds  belonging  to  a  squatting  and  mining  company. 
There  was  this  extenuating  circumstance  :  he  could  have 
replaced  the  money,  which,  as  he  said,  he'd  only  intended 
to  use  for  a  few  weeks.  But  a  personal  enemy  threw 
suspicion  on  him,  accounts  were  examined,  and  though 
he  showed  he'd  only  used  the  money  while  more  of  his 
own  was  on  the  way  to  him,  the  company  insisted  on 
prosecuting  him.  For  two  reasons  :  because  it  was  itself 
in  bad  odor,  and  hoped  by  this  trial  to  divert  public 
attention  from  its  own  dirty  position  ;  and  because  he  had 
against  him  not  only  his  personal  enemy,  but  those  who 
wanted  to  hit  the  company  through  him.  He'd  filched 
to  be  able  to  meet  the  large  expenses  of  his  wife's  estab- 
lishment. Into  this  he  didn't  enter  minutely,  and  he 
didn't  blame  her  for  her  having  so  big  a  menage;  he  only 
said  he  was  sorry  that  he  hadn't  been  able  to  support  it 
without  having  to  come,  even  for  a  day,  to  the  stupidity 
of  stealing. 

"  After  two  years  he  escaped.  He  asked  me  to  write  a 
letter  to  his  wife,  which  he'd  dictate.  Marmion,  you  or 
I  couldn't  have  dictated  that  letter  if  we'd  taken  a  year 
to  do  it.  There  was  no  religion  in  it,  no  poppy-cock, 
but  straightforward  talk,  full  of  sorrow  for  what  he'd 
done  and  for  the  disgrace  he'd  brought  on  her.  I 
remember  the  last  few  sentences  as  if  I'd  seen  them 
yesterday  : — '  I  am  dying  on  the  open  sea,  disgraced 
but  free,'  he  said.  '  I  am  not  innocent  in  act,  but  I  was 
not  guilty  of  intentional  wrong.     I  did  what  I  did  that 


MRS.    FALCHION.  41 

you  should  have  all  you  wished,  all  you  ought  to  have. 
I  ask  but  this — and  I  shall  soon  ask  for  nothing — that  you 
will  have  a  kind  thought,  now  and  then,  for  the  man 
who  always  loved  you,  and  loves  you  yet.  I  have 
never  blamed  you  that  you  did  not  come  near  me  in 
my  trouble,  but  I  wish  you  were  here  for  a  moment 
before  I  go  away  forever.  You  must  forgive  me  now, 
for  you  will  be  free.  If  I  were  a  better  man  I  would 
say,  "  God  bless  you."  In  my  last  conscious  moments  I 
will  think  of  you  and  speak  your  name.  And  now,  good- 
by — an  everlasting  good-by  !  I  was  your  loving  hus- 
band, and  am  your  lover  until  death.'  And  it  was  signed, 
1  Boyd  Madras.' 

"  However,  he  didn't  die.  Between  the  captain  and 
myself  we  kept  life  in  him,  and  at  last  landed  him  at 
Port  Darwin  ;  all  of  us,  officers  and  crew,  swearing  to 
tell  no  one  he  was  a  convict.  And  I'll  say  this  for  the 
crew  of  the  Dancing  Kate,  that,  so  far  as  I  know,  they 
kept  their  word.  That  letter,  addressed  in  care  of  a  firm 
of  Melbourne  bankers,  I  gave  back  to  him  before  we 
landed.  We  made  him  up  a  purse  of  fifty  pounds,— for 
the  crew  had  got  to  like  him,— and  left  him  at  Port  Dar- 
win, sailing  away  again  in  a  few  days  to  another  pearl- 
field  farther  east.  What  happened  to  him  at  Port  Dar- 
win and  elsewhere,  I  don't  know  ;  but  one  day  I  found 
him  on  a  fashionable  steamer  in  the  Indian  Ocean,  look- 
ing almost  as  near  to  kingdom  come  as  when  he  starved 
in  the  dinghey  on  No  Man's  Sea.  As  I  said  before,  I 
think  he  didn't  recognize  me,  and  he's  lying  now  in  116 
Intermediate,  with  a  look  on  him  that  I've  seen  in  the 
face  of  a  man  condemned  to  death  by  the  devils  of  cholera 
or  equatorial  fever.  And  that's  the  story,  Marmion,  which 
I  brought  you  to  hear ;  told,  as  you  notice,  in  fine,  classical 
style." 

"  And  why  do  you  tell  me  this,  Hungerford— a  secret 
you've  kept  all  these  years  ?     Knowledge  of  that  man's 


42  MRS.    FALCHION. 

crime  wasn't  necessary  before  giving  him  belladonna  or 
a  hot  bath." 

Hungerford  kept  back  the  whole  truth  for  reasons  of 
his  own.  He  said  :  "  Chiefly,  because  I  want  you  to  take 
a  decent  interest  in  the  chap.  He  looks  as  if  he  might 
go  off  on  the  Long  Voyage  any  tick  o'  the  clock.  You're 
doctor,  parson,  and  everything  else  of  the  kind  on  board. 
I  like  the  poor  devil  ;  but  I'm  not  in  a  position  to  be 
going  around  with  ginger-tea  in  a  spoon,  or  Ecclesiastes 
under  my  arm — very  good  things,  anyway.  Your  profes- 
sion has  more  or  less  to  do  with  the  mind  as  well  as  the 
body,  and  you  may  take  my  word  for  it  that  Boyd  Madras's 
mind  is  as  sick  as  his  torso.  By  the  way,  he  calls  himself 
'  Charles  Boyd,'  so  I  suppose  we  needn't  recall  to  him  his 
former  experiences  by  adding  the  '  Madras.'  " 

Hungerford  squeezed  my  arm  again  violently,  and 
added:  "See  here,  Marmion,  we  understand  each  other 
in  this,  don't  we  ?  To  do  what  we  can  for  the  fellow,  and 
be  mum." 

Some  of  this  looks  rough  and  blunt,  but,  as  it  was 
spoken,  there  was  that  in  it  which  softened  it  to  my  ear. 
I  knew  he  had  told  all  he  thought  I  ought  to  know,  and 
that  he  wished  me  to  question  him  no  more,  and  not 
to  refer  to  Mrs.  Falchion,  whose  relationship  to  Boyd 
Madras — or  Charles  Boyd — both  of  us  suspected. 

"  It  was  funny  about  those  verses  coming  to  my  mind, 
wasn't  it,  Marmion  ?  "  he  continued.  -And  he  began  to 
repeat  one  of  them,  keeping  time  to  the  wave-like  metre 
with  his  cheroot,  winding  up  with  a  quick  circular  move- 
ment, and  putting  it  again  between  his  lips  : 

"  There's  never  a  ripple  upon  the  tide, 
There's  never  a  breath  or  sound  ; 
But  over  the  waste  the  white  wraiths  glide, 
To  look  for  the  souls  of  the  drowned." 

Then  he  jumped  off  the  berth  where  he  had  been  sit- 
ting, put  on  his  jacket,  said  it  was  time  to  take  his  turn 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


43 


on  the  bridge,  and  prepared  to  go  out,  having  apparently 
dismissed  Number  116  Intermediate  from  his  mind. 

I  went  to  Charles  Boyd's  cabin,  and  knocked  gently. 
There  was  no  response.  I  entered.  He  lay  sleeping 
soundly — the  sleep  that  comes  after  nervous  exhaustion. 
I  had  a  good  chance  to  study  him  as  he  lay  there.  The 
face  was  sensitive  and  well  fashioned,  but  not  strong  ; 
the  hands  were  delicate,  yet  firmly  made.  One  hand 
was  held  clenched  upon  that  portion  of  his  breast  where 
the  portrait  hung. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    TRACK    OF    THE    ISHMAELITE. 

I  went  on  deck  again,  and  found  Clovelly  in  the  smok- 
ing-room. The  bookmaker  was  engaged  in  telling  tales 
of  the  turf,  alternated  with  comic  songs  by  Blackburn, 
an  occupation  which  lasted  throughout  the  voyage,  and 
was  associated  with  electric  appeals  to  the  steward  to  fill 
the  flowing  bowl.  Clovelly  came  with  me,  and  we  joined 
Miss  Treherne  and  her  father.  Mr.  Treherne  introduced 
me  to  his  daughter,  and  Clovelly  amiably  drew  the  father 
into  a  discussion  of  communism  as  found  in  the  South 
Sea  Islands. 

I  do  not  think  my  conversation  with  Miss  Treherne 
was  brilliant.  She  has  since  told  me  that  I  appeared 
self-conscious  and  preoccupied.  This  being  no  compli- 
ment to  her,  I  was  treated  accordingly.  I  could  have 
endorsed  Clovelly's  estimate  of  her,  so  far  as  her  reserve 
and  sedateness  were  concerned.  It  seemed  impossible 
to  talk  naturally.  The  events  of  the  day  were  interrupt- 
ing the  ordinary  run  of  thought,  and  I  felt  at  a  miserable 
disadvantage.  I  saw,  however,  that  the  girl  was  gifted 
and  clear  of  mind>  and  possessed  of  great  physical  charm, 


44  MRS.    FALCHICN. 

but  of  that  fine  sort  which  must  be  seen  in  suitable  sur- 
roundings to  be  properly  appreciated.  Here,  on  board 
ship,  a  sweet  gravity  and  a  proud  decorum,  not  altogether 
unnecessary,  prevented  her  from  being  seen  at  once  to 
the  best  advantage.  Even  at  this  moment  I  respected 
her  the  more  for  it,  and  was  not  surprised,  nor  exactly 
displeased,  that  she  adroitly  drew  her  father  and  Clovelly 
into  the  conversation.  With  Clovelly  she  seemed  to  find 
immediate  ground  for  naive  and  pleasant  talk — on  his 
part  deferential,  original,  and  attentive  ;  on  hers,  easy, 
allusive,  and  warmed  with  piquant  humour.  I  admired 
her,  saw  how  cleverly  Clovelly  was  making  the  most  of 
her  ;  guessed  at  the  solicitude,  studious  care,  and  affection 
of  her  bringing  up  ;  watched  the  fond  pleasure  of  the 
father  as  he  listened  ;  and  was  angry  with  myself  that 
Mrs.  Falchion's  voice  rang  in  my  ears  at  the  same  mo- 
ment as  hers.  But  it  did  ring,  and  the  real  value  of  that 
smart  tournament  of  ideas  was  partially  lost  to  me. 

The  next  morning  I  went  to  Boyd  Madras's  cabin. 
He  welcomed  me  gratefully,  and  said  that  he  was  much 
better  ;  as  he  seemed  ;  but  he  carried  a  hectic  flush  such 
as  comes  to  a  consumptive  person.  I  said  little  to  him 
beyond  what  was  necessary  for  the  discussion  of  his  case. 
I  cautioned  him  about  any  unusual  exertion,  and  was 
about  to  leave,  when  an  impulse  came  to  me,  and  I  re- 
turned and  said  :  "  You  will  not  let  me  help  you  in  any 
other  way?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  be  very  glad  of  your  help;  but 
not  just  yet.  .  .  .  And,  Doctor,  believe  me,  I  think 
medicine  can  do  very  little.  Though  I  am  thankful  to 
you  for  visiting  me,  you  need  not  take  the  trouble  unless 
I  am  worse  ;  and  then  I  will  send  a  steward  for  you,  or 
go  to  you  myself." 

What  lay  behind  this  request,  unless  it  was  sensitive- 
ness, I  could  not  tell  ;  but  I  determined  to  take  my  own 
course,  and  to  visit  him  when  I  thought  fit. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  45 

I  saw  him  but  once  or  twice  on  the  afterdeck  in  the 
succeeding  days.  He  evidently  wished  to  keep  out  of 
sight  as  much  as  possible.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  there 
was  a  kind  of  satisfaction  in  this  to  me  ;  for,  when  a  man's 
wife — and  I  believed  she  was  Boyd  Madras's  wife — hangs 
on  your  arm,  and  he  himself  is  denied  that  privilege, 
and  fares  poorly  beside  her  sumptuousness,  and  lives 
as  a  stranger  to  her,  you  can  scarcely  regard  his  presence 
with  pleasure.  And  from  the  sheer  force  of  circum- 
stances, as  it  seemed  to  me  then,  Mrs.  Falchion's  hand 
was  often  on  my  arm.  It  was  impossible  not  to  feel 
the  influence  ;  and  if  I  did  not  yield  entirely  to  it,  I  was 
more  possessed  by  it  than  I  was  aware.  I  was  inquisitive 
to  know  beyond  doubt  that  she  was  the  wife  of  this  man. 
I  think  it  was  in  my  mind  all  the  time,  that,  perhaps,  by 
being  with  her  much,  I  should  be  able  to  do  him  a  service. 
But  there  came  a  time  when  I  was  sufficiently  undeceived. 
It  was  all  a  game  of  misery  in  which  some  one  stood  to 
lose  all  round.  Who  was  it :  she,  or  I,  or  the  refugee  of 
misfortune,  Number  116  Intermediate?  She  seemed  safe 
enough.     He  or  I  should  suffer  in  the  crash  of  penalities. 

It  was  a  strange  situation.  I,  the  acquaintance  of  a 
day,  was  welcome  within  the  circle  of  this  woman's 
favor,  though  it  was  an  unemotional  favor  on  her 
side.  He,  the  husband,  as  I  believed,  though  only  half 
the  length  of  the  ship  away,  was  as  distant  from  her  as 
the  North  Star.  When  I  sat  with  her  on  deck  at  night, 
I  seemed  to  feel  Boyd  Madras's  face  looking  at  me  from 
the  half  darkness  of  the  after-deck  ;  and  Mrs.  Falchion, 
whose  keen  eyes  missed  little,  remarked  once  on  my  gaze 
in  that  direction.  Thereafter  I  was  more  careful,  but  the 
idea  haunted  me.  Still,  I  was  not  the  only  person  who 
sat  with  her.  Other  men  paid  her  attentive  court.  The 
difference  was,  however,  that  with  me  she  assumed  ever 
so  delicate,  yet  palpable,  an  air  of  proprietorship,  none 
the  less  alluring  because  there  was  no  heart  in  it.     So 


46  MRS.    FALCHION. 

far  as  the  other  passengers  were  concerned,  there  was 
nothing  jarring  to  propriety  in  our  companionship.  They 
did  not  know  of  Number  116  Intermediate.  She  had 
been  announced  as  a  widow  ;  and  she  had  told  Mrs. 
Callendar  that  her  father's  brother  who,  years  before,  had 
gone  to  California,  had  died  within  the  past  two  years 
and  left  her  his  property  ;  and,  since  all  Californians  are 
supposed  to  be  millionaires,  her  wealth  was  counted  fabu- 
lous. She  was  going  now  to  England,  and  from  thence 
to  California  in  the  following  year.  People  said  that  Dr. 
Marmion  knew  on  which  side  his  bread  was  buttered. 
They  may  have  said  more  unpleasant  things,  but  I  did 
not  hear  them,  or  of  them. 

All  the  time  I  was  conscious  of  a  kind  of  dishonor, 
and  perhaps  it  was  that  which  prompted  me  (I  had  fallen 
away  from  my  intention  of  visiting  him  freely)  to  send 
my  steward  to  see  how  Boyd  Madras  came  on,  rather 
than  go  myself.  I  was,  however,  conscious  that  the 
position  could  not,  should  not,  be  maintained  long.  The 
practical  outcome  of  this  knowledge  was  not  tardy.  A 
new  influence  came  into  my  life  which  was  to  affect  it 
permanently  :  but  not  without  a  struggle. 

A  series  of  concerts  and  lectures  had  been  arranged 
for  the  voyage,  and  the  fancy  dress  ball  was  to  close  the 
first  part  of  the  journey, — that  is,  at  Aden.  One  night  a 
concert  was  on  in  the  music-saloon.  I  had  just  come 
from  seeing  a  couple  of  passengers  who  had  been  suffer- 
ing from  the  heat,  and  was  debating  whether  to  find  Mrs. 
Falchion,  who,  I  knew,  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  deck, 
go  in  to  the  concert,  or  join  Colonel  Ryder  and  Clovelly, 
who  had  asked  me  to  come  to  the  smoking-room  when  I 
could.  I  am  afraid  I  was  balancing  rather  heavily  in 
favor  of  Mrs.  Falchion,  when  I  heard  a  voice,  new  to 
me,  singing  a  song  I  had  known  years  before,  when 
life  was  ardent,  and  love  first  came  to  me — halcyon  days 
in  country  lanes,  in  lilac  thickets,  and  upon  the  heaths  in 


MRS.    FALCHION.  47 

pleasant  Hertfordshire,  where  our  footsteps  were  met  by 
a  miniature  bombardment  of  bursting  seed-pods  of  furze, 
among  the  billows  of  green  common  sloping  to  the  vil- 
lage.    I  thought  of  all  this,  and  of  her  everlasting  quiet. 

With  a  different  voice,  the  words  of  the  song  would 
have  sent  me  out  of  hearing  ;  now  I  stood  chained  to  the 
spot,  as  the  notes  floated  out  past  me  to  the  nervelessness 
of  the  Indian  Ocean,  every  one  of  them  a  commandment 
from  behind  the  curtain  of  a  sanctuary. 

The  voice  was  a  warm  full  contralto  of  exquisite  cul- 
ture. It  suggested  depths  of  rich  sound  behind,  from 
which  the  singer,  if  she  chose,  might  draw,  until  the 
room  and  the  deck  and  the  sea  ached  with  sweetness.  A. 
scarcely  dared  to  look  in  to  see  who  it  was,  lest  I  should 
find  it  a  dream.  I  stood  with  my  head  turned  away 
towards  the  dusky  ocean.  When,  at  last,  with  the  clos- 
ing notes  of  the  song,  I  went  to  the  porthole  and  looked 
in,  I  saw  that  the  singer  was  Miss  Belle  Treherne.  There 
was  an  abstracted  look  in  her  eyes  as  she  raised  them, 
and  she  seemed  unconscious  of  the  applause  following 
the  last  chords  of  the  accompaniment.  She  stood  up, 
folding  the  music  as  she  did  so,  and  unconsciously  glanced 
towards  the  porthole  where  I  was.  Her  look  caught 
mine,  and  instantly  a  change  passed  over  her  face.  The 
effect  of  the  song  upon  her  was  broken  ;  she  flushed 
slightly,  and,  as  I  thought,  with  faint  annoyance. 

I  know  of  nothing  so  little  complimentary  to  a  singer 
as  the  audience  that  patronizingly  listens  outside  a  room 
or  window,  not  bound  by  any  sense  of  duty  as  an  audi- 
ence, and  between  whom  and  the  artist  an  unnatural  bar- 
rier is  raised.  But  I  have  reason  to  think  now  that  Belle 
Treherne  was  not  wholly  moved  by  annoyance  ;  that  she 
had  seen  something  unusually,  maybe,  oppressively,  earn- 
est in  my  look.  She  turned  to  her  father.  He  adjusted 
his  glasses  as  if,  in  his  pride,  to  see  her  better.  Then  she 
fondly  took  his  arm  and  they  left  the  room. 


48  MRS.    FALCHION. 

As  they  left,  I  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Falchion's  face  at 
the  porthole  opposite.  Her  eyes  were  on  me.  An 
instant  before,  I  had  intended  following  Miss  Treherne 
and  her  father  ;  some  unaccountable  revolution  went  on 
in  me,  so  that  I  flashed  back  to  her  a  warm  recognition. 
I  could  not  have  believed  it  possible,  if  it  had  been  told 
of  me,  that,  one  minute,  affected  by  beautiful  and  sacred 
remembrances,  the  next,  I  should  be  yielding  to  the 
unimpassioned  tyranny  of  this  woman,  who  could  never 
be  anything  but  a  stumbling  block  and  an  evil  influence. 
I  had  yet  to  learn  that  in  times  of  mental  and  moral 
struggle,  the  mixed  fighting  forces  in  us  resolve  them- 
selves into  two  cohesive  powers,  and  strive  for  mastery  ; 
that  no  past  thought  or  act  goes  for  nothing  at  such 
a  time,  but  creeps  out  from  the  darkness  where  we 
thought  it  had  gone  forever,  and  does  battle  with  its  kind 
against  the  common  foe.  There  moved  before  me  three 
women  : — one,  sweet  and  unsubstantial,  wistful  and  mute 
and  very  young,  not  of  the  earth,  earthy ;  one,  lissome, 
grave,  with  gracious  body  and  warm  abstracted  eyes,  all 
delicacy,  strength,  reserve  ;  the  other  and  last,  daring, 
cold,  beautiful,  with  irresistible  charm,  silent  and  com- 
pelling. And  these  are  the  three  women  who  have 
influenced  my  life,  who  fought  in  me  then  for  mastery  ; 
one  from  out  the  unchangeable  past,  the  others  in  the 
tangible  and  delible  present.  Most  of  us  have  to  pass 
through  such  ordeals  before  character  and  conviction 
receive  their  final  bias  ;  before  human  nature  has  its  wild 
trouble,  and  then  settles  into  " cold  rock  and  quiet  world;  '* 
which  any  lesser  after  shocks  may  modify,  but  cannot 
radically  change. 

I  tried  to  think.  I  felt  that  to  be  manly,  I  should  turn 
from  those  eyes.  I  recalled  the  words  of  Clovelly  spoken 
to  me  that  afternoon,  half  laughingly:  "Dr.  Marmion,  I 
wonder  how  many  of  us  wish  ourselves  transported  per- 
manently to  that  time  when  we  didn't  know  champagne 


MRS.    FALCHION.  49 

from  alter  feiner  madeira,  or  dry  hock  from  sweet  sau- 
terne  ;  when  a  pretty  face  made  us  feel  ready  to  abjure 
all  the  sinful  lusts  of  the  flesh,  and  become  inheritors 
of  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Egad  !  I  should  like  to  feel 
it  once  again.  But  how  can  we,  when  we  have  been 
intoxicated  with  many  things  ;  when  we're  drunk  with 
success  and  experience  ;  have  hung  on  the  fringe  of 
unrighteousness,  and  know  the  world  backwards,  and 
ourselves  mercilessly  ? " 

Was  I,  like  the  drunkard,  coming  surely  to  the  time 
when  I  could  no  longer  say  yes  to  my  wisdom,  or  no  to 
my  weakness  ?  I  knew  that,  an  hour  before,  in  filling  a 
phial  with  medicine,  I  found  I  was  doing  it  mechanically, 
and  had  to  begin  over  again,  making  an  effort  to  keep 
my  mind  to  the  task.  I  think  it  an  axiom  that  no  man 
can  properly  perform  the  business  of  life  who  indulges 
in  emotional  preoccupation. 

These  thoughts,  which  take  so  long  to  write,  passed 
then  through  my  mind  swiftly  ;  but  her  eyes  were  on  me 
with  a  peculiar  and  confident  persistence,  and  I  yielded. 
On  my  way  to  her  I  met  Clovelly  and  Colonel  Ryder. 
Hungerford  was  walking  between  them.  Colonel  Ryder 
said:  "I've  been  saving  that  story  for  you,  Doctor; 
better  come  and  get  it  while  it's  hot." 

This  was  a  promised  tale  of  the  taking  of  Mobile  in 
the  American  Civil  War.  At  any  other  time  the  invita- 
tion would  have  pleased  me  mightily;  for,  apart  from  the 
other  two,  Hungerford's  brusque  and  original  conversa- 
tion was  always  a  pleasure— so  were  his  cheroots  ;  but 
now  I  was  under  an  influence  selfish  in  its  source.  At 
the  same  time,  I  felt  that  Hungerford  was  storing  up 
some  acute  criticism  of  me,  and  that  he  might  let  me  hear 
of  it  any  moment.  I  knew,  numbering  the  order  of  his 
duties,  that  he  could  have  but  a  very  short  time  to  spare 
for  gossip  at  this  juncture,  yet  I  said  that  I  could  not 
jo-'.n  them  for  half  an   hour  or  so.     Hungerford   had  a 


50  MRS.    FALCHION. 

fashion  of  looking  at  me  searchingly  from  under  his 
heavy  brows,  and  I  saw  that  he  did  so  now  with  impa- 
tience, perhaps  contempt.  I  was  certain  that  he  longed 
to  thrash  me.  That  was  his  idea  of  punishment  and 
penalty.  He  linked  his  arms  in  those  of  the  other  two 
men,  and  they  moved  on,  Colonel  Ryder  saying  that  he 
would  keep  the  story  till  I  came. 

The  concert  was  still  going  on  when  I  sat  down 
beside  Mrs.  Falchion.  "  You  seem  to  enjoy  Miss  Tre- 
herne's  singing,"  she  said  cordially  enough,  as  she  folded 
her  hands  idly  in  her  lap. 

"  Yes,  I  thought  it  beautiful.     Didn't  you  ? " 

"  Pretty,  most  pretty  ;  and  admirable  in  technique 
and  tone,  but  she  has  too  much  feeling  to  be  really 
artistic.  She  felt  the  thing,  instead  of  pretending  to  feel 
it_which  makes  all  the  difference.  She  belongs  to  a 
race  of  delightful  women  who  never  do  any  harm,  whom 
everybody  calls  good,  and  who  are  very  severe  on  those 
that  don't  pretend  to  be  good.  Still,  all  of  that  pleasant 
race  will  read  their  husbands'  letters,  and  smuggle.  They 
have  no  civic  virtues.  Yet  they  would  be  shocked  to  bathe 
on  the  beach  without  a  machine  as  American  women  do, 
and  they  look  for  a  new  fall  of  Jerusalem  when  one  of 
their  sex  smokes  a  cigarette  after  dinner.  Now  I  don't 
smoke  cigarettes  after  dinner,  so  I  can  speak  freely.  But, 
at  the  same  time,  I  don't  smuggle,  and  I  do  bathe  on  the 
beach  without  a  machine  when  I  am  in  a  land  where 
there  are  no  sharks  and  no  taboo.  And  I  wish  to  say 
that  if  morally  consumptive  people  were  given  a  few 
years  in  the  South  Seas,  where  they  couldn't  get  away 
from  nature,  there  would  be  more  strength  and  less 
scandal  in  society." 

I  laughed.  She  continued  :  "  There's  a  frank  note  for 
Mr.  Clovelly,  the  sleepy-eyed  novelist,  who  thinks  he 
knows  the  world  and  my  sex  thoroughly.  He  says  as 
much  in  his  books  ;— have  you  read  his  A  Fair  Apoca- 


MRS.    FALCHION.  5  I 

lypse? — he  said  more  than  as  much  to  me.  But  he  knows 
a  mere  nothing  about  women — their  beautiful  inconsist- 
encies ;  their  infidelity  in  little  things,  and  fidelity  in  big 
things ;  their  self-torturings  ;  their  inability  to  compre- 
hend themselves  ;  their  periods  of  religious  insanity  ; 
their  occasional  revolts  against  the  restraints  of  a  wo- 
man's position,  known  only  to  themselves  in  their  dark 
hours.  Ah !  really,  Dr.  Marmion,  he  is  ignorant,  I 
assure  you.  He  has  only  two  or  three  kinds  of  women 
in  his  mind,  and  the  representatives  of  these  fooled  him, 
as  far  as  he  went  with  them,  to  their  hearts'  content. 
Believe  me,  there  is  no  one  quite  so  foolish  as  the  pro- 
fessional student  of  character.  He  sees  things  with  a 
glamour  ;  he  is  impressionable  ;  he  immediately  begins 
to  make  a  woman  what  he  wishes  her  to  be  for  his  book, 
not  what  she  is  ;  and  women  laugh  at  him  when  they 
read  his  books,  or  pity  him  if  they  know  him  personally. 
I  venture  to  say  that  I  could  make  Mr.  Clovelly  use  me 
in  a  novel — not  A  Fair  Apocalypse — as  a  placid  lover  of 
fancy  bazaars  and  Dorcas  societies,  instead  of  a  very 
practical  person  who  has  seen  life  without  the  romantic 
eye,  and  knows  as  well  the  working  of  a  buccaneering 
craft — through  consular  papers  and  magisterial  trials  of 
course — as  of  a  colonial  government  house.  But  it  isn't 
worth  while  trying  to  make  him  falsify  my  character — 
besides,  you  are  here  to  amuse  me." 

This  speech,  as  she  uttered  it,  was  pleasantly  auda- 
cious and  clever.  I  laughed,  and  made  a  gesture  of 
mock  dissent ;  and  she  continued  :  "  Now  I  have  fin- 
ished my  lecture.  Please  tie  my  shoe-lace  there,  and 
then,  as  I  said,  amuse  me.  Oh,  you  can  if  you  choose  ! 
You  are  clever  when  you  like  to  be.  Only,  this  time, 
don't  let  it  be  a  professor's  wife  who  foolishly  destroys 
herself,  and  cuts  short  what  might  have  been  a  brilliant 
career." 

On  the  instant  I  determined  to  probe  deeper  into  her 


52  MRS.    FALCHION. 

life,  and  try  her  nerve,  by  telling  a  story  with  enough 
likeness  to  her  own  (if  she  was  the  wife  of  Boyd  Madras), 
to  affect  her  acutely,  though  I  was  not  sure  I  could  suc- 
ceed. A  woman  who  triumphs  over  sea-sickness,  whom 
steam  from  the  boilers  never  affects  nor  the  propeller- 
screw  disturbs,  has  little  to  fear  from  the  words  of  a  man 
who  was  neither  adroit,  eloquent,  nor  dramatic.  How- 
ever, I  determined  to  try  what  I  could  do.  I  said  :  "  I 
fancy  you  would  like  something  in  the  line  of  adventure, 
but  my  career  has  not  run  in  that  direction,  so  I  shall 
resort  to  less  exciting  fields,  and,  I  fear  also,  a  not  very 
cheerful  subject." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  !  "  said  she.  "  What  you  please,  so 
long  as  it  isn't  conventional  and  hackneyed.  But  I 
know  you  won't  be  prosy;  so  go  on,  please." 

"  Well,"  I  began,  "  once,  in  the  hospital,  I  attended 
a  man  — Anson  was  his  name — who,  when  he  thought  he 
was  going  to  die,  confided  to  me  his  life's  secret.  I  liked 
the  man  ;  he  was  good-looking,  amiable,  but  hopelessly 
melancholy.  He  was  dying  as  much  from  trouble  as 
disease.  No  counsel  or  encouragement  had  any  effect 
upon  him  ;  he  did  as  I  have  seen  so  many  do,  resigned 
himself  to  the  slow  outgoing  tide.  Well,  for  the  secret. 
He  had  been  a  felon.  His  crime  had  been  committed 
through  ministering  to  his  wife's  vanity.      .     .     ." 

Here  I  paused.  I  felt  Mrs.  Falchion's  eyes  searching 
me.  I  raised  mine  steadily  to  hers  with  an  impersonal 
glance,  and  saw  that  she  had  not  changed  color  in  the 
least.  But  her  eyes  were  busy.  ...  I  proceeded  : 
"  When  he  was  disgraced  she  did  not  come  near  him. 
When  he  went  to  her  after  he  was  released  "  (here  I 
thought  it  best  to  depart  from  any  close  resemblance  to 
Boyd  Madras's  story),  and  was  admitted  to  her,  she 
treated  him  as  an  absolute  stranger,  as  one  who  had 
intruded,  and  might  be  violent.  She  said  that  she  and 
her  maid   were    alone    in    the    house,    and    that  he  had 


MRS.    FALCHION.  53 

evidently  come  to  rob  them.  She  bade  him  go.  He 
called  her  by  his  own  name,  and  begged  her  by  the 
memory  of  their  dead  child  to  speak  kindly  to  him.  She 
said  he  was  quite  mistaken  in  her  name ;  that  she  was 
Mrs.  Glave,  not  Mrs.  Anson,  and  again  insisted  that  he 
should  go.  He  left  her,  and  at  last,  broken-hearted, 
found  his  way,  in  illness  and  poverty,  to  the  hospital  ; 
where,  towards  the  last,  he  was  cared  for  by  a  noble  girl, 
a  companion  of  his  boyhood  and  his  better  days,  who 
urged  his  wife  to  visit  him.  She  would  not  come,  said 
unpleasant  things  to  the  girl,  didn't  come  to  see  her  hus- 
band even  when  he  was  dead,  and  provided  nothing  for 
his  burial.  You  see  that,  like  you,  she  hated  suffering 
and  misery — and  criminals.  The  girl  and  her  mother 
paid  the  expenses  of  the  funeral,  and,  with  myself,  were 
the  only  mourners.  I  am  doubtful  if  the  wvife  knows 
even  where  he  lies.  I  admit  that  the  story  looks  melo- 
dramatic, but  truth  is  more  drama  than  comedy,  any  way. 
Now  what  do  you  think  of  it  all,  Mrs.  Falchion  ? " 

I  had  felt  her  shrink  a  little  at  the  earlier  part  of  my 
story,  as  if  she  feared  that  her  own  tale  was  to  be  bru- 
tally bared  before  her  ;  but  that  soon  passed,  and  she 
languidly  tapped  the  chair-arm  as  the  narrative  contin- 
ued. When  it  was  finished  she  leaned  over  slightly,  and 
with  those  same  fingers  tapped  my  arm.  I  thrilled  invol- 
untarily. 

"  He  died,  did  he  ? "  she  said.  "  That  was  the  most 
graceful  thing  he  could  do.  So  far  as  my  knowledge  of 
the  world  is  concerned,  men  of  his  class  do  not  die. 
They  live,  and  they  never  rise  above  their  degradation. 
They  had  not  brains  enough  nor  courage  to  keep  them 
out  of  jail,  and  they  haven't  pluck  or  brains  enough  to 
succeed  afterwards.  Your  friend  Anson  was  quite  gentle- 
manly in  his  action  at  the  last.  He  had  some  sense  of 
the  fitness  of  things.  He  couldn't  find  a  place  in  the 
world  without  making  other  people  uncomfortable  and 


54  MRS.    FALCHION. 

causing  trouble.  If  he  had  lived  he  would  always  have 
added  to  the  blight  on  his  wife's  career,  and  have  been  a 
knife — not  a  thorn — in  her  side.  Very  likely  he  would 
have  created  a  scandal  for  the  good  young  girl  who 
nursed  him.  He  made  the  false  step,  and  compelled 
society  to  reject  him.  It  did  not  want  to  do  so.  It 
never  does.  It  is  long-suffering  ;  it  tries  not  to  see  and 
acknowledge  things  until  the  culprit  himself  forces  it  to 
take  action.  Then  it  says  :  '  Now  you  have  openly  and 
inconsiderately  broken  our  bond  of  mutual  forbearance. 
You  make  me  send  you  away.  Go,  then,  behind  stone 
walls,  and  please  don't  come  to  me  again.  If  you  do, 
you  will  only  be  a  troublesome  ghost ;  you  will  cause 
awkwardness  and  distress.'  So  Mr.  Anson  (I  must  be 
polite  to  him)  did  the  most  reasonable  and  proper  thing  : 
he  disappeared  from  the  play  before  it  actually  became 
tragedy.  There  was  no  tragedy  in  his  death.  Death  is 
a  magnificent  ally  ;  it  untangles  knots.  The  tragedy 
was  in  his  living.  He  disappeared.  Then  the  play  be- 
came drama,  with  only  a  little  shadow  of  tragedy  behind 
it.      Now,  frankly,  am  I  not  right  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Falchion,"  I  said,  "  your  argument  is  clever, 
but  it  is  only  incidentally  true.  You  draw  life,  society, 
and  men,  no  more  correctly  than  the  author  of  A  Fair 
Apocalypse  would  draw  you.  The  social  law  you  sketch, 
when  reduced  to  its  bare  elements,  is  remorseless  and 
cruel.  It  does  not  provide  for  repentance,  for  restitu- 
tion, for  recovering  a  lost  paradise.  It  makes  an  act 
final ;  a  sin  irrevocable." 

"  Well,  since  we  are  beginning  to  talk  like  a  couple  of 
books  by  a  couple  of  priggish  philosophers,  I  might  as 
well  say  that  I  think  sin  is  final  so  far  as  the  domestic 
and  social  machinery  of  the  world  is  concerned.  What 
his  religious  belief  requires  of  a  man  is  one  thing,  what 
his  fellow-men  require  of  him  is  another.  Society  says 
you  shall  have  latitude  enough  to  swing  in  freely,  but  you 


MRS.    FALCHION.  5^ 

must  keep  within  the  code.  As  soon  as  you  break  the 
law  openly,  and  set  the  machinery  of  public  penalty  in 
motion,  there  is  an  end  of  you  so  far  as  this  world  is  con- 
cerned. You  may  live  on,  but  you  have  been  broken  on 
the  wheel,  and  broken  you  always  will  be.  It  isn't  a 
question  of  right  or  wrong,  of  kindness  or  cruelty,  but  of 
general  expediency  and  inevitableness.  To  all  intents 
and  purposes  Mr.  Anson  was  dead  before  he  breathed 
his  last.  He  died  when  he  passed  within  the  walls  of  a 
jail,  condemned  for  theft." 

There  was  singular  scorn  in  her  last  few  words,  and, 
dissent  as  I  did  from  her  merciless  theories,  I  was  aston- 
ished at  her  adroitness  and  downrightness  ;  enchanted  by 
the  glow  of  her  face.  To  this  hour,  knowing  all  her  life 
as  I  do,  I  can  only  regard  her  as  a  splendid  achievement 
of  nature,  convincing,  even  when  at  the  most  awkward 
tangents,  with  the  general  sense  and  the  straightest  inter- 
pretation of  life  ;  convincing,  even  in  those  other  and 
later  incidents,  which  showed  her  to  be  acting  not  so 
much  by  impulse  as  by  the  law  of  her  nature.  Her 
emotions  were  apparently  rationalized  at  birth,  to  be 
derationalized  and  broken  up  by  a  power  greater  than 
herself  before  her  life  had  worked  itself  out.  I  had 
counted  her  clever ;  I  had  not  reckoned  with  her  powers 
of  reasoning.  Influenced  as  I  was  by  emotion  when  in 
her  presence,  I  resorted  to  a  personal  application  of  my 
opinions — the  last  and  most  unfair  resort  of  a  disputant. 
I  said  I  would  rather  be  Anson  dead  than  Mrs.  Anson 
living ;  I  would  rather  be  the  active  than  the  passive 
sinner  ;  the  victim  than  a  part  of  that  great  and  cruel 
machine  of  penalty. 

"  The  passive  sinner  !  "  she  replied  ;  "  why,  what 
wrong  did  she  do  ? " 

The  highest  moral  conceptions  worked  dully  in  her. 
Yet  she  seemed  then,  as  she  always  appeared  to  be,  free 
from  any  action  that  should  set  the  machine  of  penalty 


56  MRS.    FALCHION. 

going  against  herself.  She  was  inexorable,  but  she  had 
never,  knowingly,  so  much  as  slashed  the  hem  of  the 
moral  code. 

"  It  was  to  give  his  wife  pleasure  that  Anson  made  the 
false  step,"  I  urged. 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  have  had  the  pleasure  at  the 
price  ?  The  man  was  vain  and  selfish  to  run  any  risk,  to 
do  anything  that  might  endanger  her  safety  ;  that  is,  her 
happiness  and  comfort." 

"  But  suppose  he  knew  that  she  loved  ease  and  pleas- 
ure, that  he  feared  her  anger  or  disdain  if  he  did  not 
minister  to  her  luxuries  ?  " 

"  Then  he  ought  not  to  have  married  that  kind  of  a 
woman."  The  hardness  in  her  voice  was  matched  at 
that  moment  by  the  growing  coldness  of  her  face. 

"That  is  begging  the  question,"  I  replied.  "What 
would  such  a  selfish  woman  do  in  such  a  case,  if  her 
pleasure  could  not  be  gratified  ?  " 

"  You  must  ask  that  kind  of  a  woman,"  was  her  ironical 
answer. 

I  rather  rashly  felt  that  her  castle  of  strength  was 
crumbling.     I  ventured  farther. 

"  I  have  done  so." 

She  turned  slightly  towards  me,  yet  not  nervously  as  I 
had  expected.     "  What  did  she  say  ?" 

"  She  declined  to  anszuer  directly." 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  I  felt  her  eyes  searching 
my  face.  I  fear  I  must  have  learned  dissimulation  well, 
for  after  a  minute  I  looked  at  her,  and  saw,  from  the  ab- 
sence of  any  curious  anxiety,  that  I  had  betrayed  nothing. 
She  looked  me  straight  in  the  eyes  and  said  :  "  Dr. 
Marmion,  a  man  must  not  expect  to  be  forgiven  who  has 
brought  shame  on  a  woman." 

"  Not  even  when  he  has  repented  and  atoned  ? " 

"  Atoned  !  How  mad  you  are  !  How  can  there  be 
atonement  ?     You  can't  wipe  things  out — on  earth,  and 


MRS.    FALCHION.  57 

we  are  of  the  earth.  Records  remain.  If  a  man  plays 
the  fool,  the  coward,  and  the  criminal,  he  must  expect  to 
wear  the  fool's  cap,  the  white  feather,  and  the  leg  chain, 
until  his  life's  end.  .  .  .  And  now,  please,  let  us 
change  the  subject.  We  have  been  bookish  long  enough." 
And  she  rose  with  a  gesture  of  disgust. 

I  did  not  rise.  "  Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Falchion,"  I  urged, 
"  but  this  thing  interests  me  so.  I  have  thought  much  of 
Anson  lately.  Please  let  us  talk  a  little  longer.  Do  sit 
down." 

She  sat  down  again  with  an  air  of  concession  rather 
than  pleasure. 

"  I  am  interested,"  I  said,  "in  looking  at  this  question 
from  a  woman's  standpoint.  You  see  I  am  apt  to  side 
with  the  miserable  fellow  who  made  a  false  step, — fool- 
ish if  you  like — all  for  love  of  a  selfish  and  beautiful 
woman." 

"  She  was  beautiful  ?  " 

"Yes,  as  you  are."  She  did  not  blush  at  that  rank 
compliment,  any  more  than  a  lioness  would,  if  you 
praised  the  astonishing  sleekness  and  beauty  of  its  skin. 

"  And  she  had  been  a  true  wife  to  him  before  that  ?" 

"  Yes,  in  all  that  concerned  the  code." 

"  Well  ?  Well,  was  not  that  enough  ?  She  did  what 
she  could,  as  long  as  she  could."  She  leaned  far  back 
in  the  chair,  her  eyes  half  shut. 

"  Don't  you  think — as  a  woman,  not  as  a  theorist — 
that  Mrs.  Anson  might  at  least  have  gone  to  him  when 
he  was  dying  ?  " 

"It  would  only  be  uncomfortable  for  her.  She  had  no 
part  in  his  life  ;  she  could  not  feel  with  him.  She  could 
do  nothing." 

"  But  suppose  she  had  loved  him  ?  By  that  memory, 
then,  of  the  time  when  they  took  each  other  for  better 
or  for  worse,  until  death  should  part  them?" 

"  Death  did  part  them  when  the  code  banished  him  ; 


58  MRS.    FALCHION. 

when  he  passed  from  a  free  world  into  a  cage.  Besides, 
we  are  talking  about  people  marrying,  not  about  their 
loving." 

"I  will  admit,"  I  said  with  a  little  raw  irony,  "that 
I  was  not  exact  in  definition." 

Here  I  got  a  glimpse  into  her  nature,  which  rendered 
after  events  not  so  marvellous  to  me  as  they  might  seem 
to  others.  She  thought  a  moment  quite  indolently,  and 
then  continued  :  "  You  make  one  moralize  like  George 
Eliot.  Marriage  is  a  condition,  but  love  must  be  an 
action.  The  one  is  a  contract,  the  other  is  complete 
possession,  a  principle — that  is,  if  it  exists  at  all.  .  .  . 
I  do  not  know." 

And  she  turned  the  rings  round  mechanically  on  her 
finger  :  among  them  was  a  wedding  ring  !  Her  voice 
had  become  low  and  abstracted,  and  now  she  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  my  presence,  and  was  looking  out  upon 
the  humming  darkness  round  us,  through  which  now 
and  again  there  rang  a  boatswain's  whistle,  or  the  loud 
laugh  of  Blackburn,  telling  of  a  joyous  hour  in  the 
smoking-room. 

I  am  now  about  to  record  an  act  of  madness,  of  folly, 
on  my  part.  I  suppose  most  men  have  such  moments  of 
temptation,  but  I  suppose  also  that  they  act  more  sensi- 
bly and  honorably  than  I  did  then.  Her  hand  had 
dropped  gently  on  the  chair-arm,  near  to  my  own  ;  and 
though  our  fingers  did  not  touch,  I  felt  mine  thrilled  and 
impelled  towards  hers.  I  do  not  seek  to  palliate  my 
action.  Though  the  man  I  believed  to  be  her  hus- 
band was  below,  I  yielded  to  an  imagined  passion  for 
her  :  in  that  moment  I  was  a  captive.  I  caught  her 
hand,  and  kissed  it  hotly.  "  But  you  might  know  what 
love  is,"  I  said.  "  You  might  learn  —  learn  of  me ! 
You " 

She  abruptly  and  with  surprise  withdrew  her  hand, 
and  without  any  visible  emotion,  save  a  quicker  pulsation 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


59 


ol  her  breast,  spoke.  "  But  even  if  I  might  learn,  Dr. 
Marmion,  be  sure  that  neither  your  college  nor  Heaven 
gave  you  the  knowledge  to  instruct  me.  .  .  .  There, 
pardon  me,  if  I  speak  harshly  ;  but  this  is  most  incon- 
siderate of  you  ;  most  impulsive — and  compromising. 
You  are  capable  of  singular  contrasts.  Please  let  us  be 
friends,  friends  simply.  You  are  too  interesting  for  a 
lover,  really  you  are." 

Her  words  were  a  cold  shock  to  my  emotion — my 
superficial  emotion  ;  though  indeed,  for  that  moment  she 
seemed  adorable  to  me.  Without  any  apparent  relevan- 
cy, but  certainly  because  my  thoughts  in  self-reproach 
were  hovering  about  Cabin  116,  Intermediate,  I  said 
with  a  biting  shame  :  "  I  do  not  wonder  now  !  " 

"  You  do  not  wonder  at  what  ?  "  she  questioned  ;  and 
she  laid  her  hand  kindly  on  my  arm.  I  put  the  hand 
away  a  little  childishly,  and  replied  :  "  At  men  going  to 
the  devil."     But  this  was  not  what  I  thought. 

"  That  does  not  sound  complimentary  to  somebody. 
May  I  ask  what  you  mean  ? "  she  said  calmly. 

"  I  mean  that  Anson  loved  his  wife,  and  she  did  not 
love  him  ;  yet  she  held  him  like  a  slave,  torturing  him  at 
the  same  time." 

"  Does  it  not  strike  you  that  this  is  irrelevant  ?  You 
are  not  my  husband  ;  not  my  slave.  But  to  be  less  per- 
sonal, Anson's  wife  was  not  responsible  for  his  loving 
her.  Love,  as  I  take  it,  is  a  voluntary  thing.  It  pleased 
him  to  love  her ;  he  would  not  have  done  it  if  it  did  not 
please  him  ;  probably  his  love  was  an  inconvenient  thing 
domestically — if  he  had  no  tact." 

"  Of  that,"  I  said,  "  neither  you  nor  I  can  know  with 
any  certainty.  But,  to  be  scriptural,  she  reaped  where 
she  did  not  sow,  and  gathered  where  she  had  not  strawed. 
If  she  did  not  make  the  man  love  her, — I  believe  she 
did,  as  I  believe  you  would,  perhaps  unconsciously,  do — 
she  used  his  love,  and  was  therefore  better  able  to  make 


60  MRS.    FALCHION. 

all  other  men  admire  or  worship  her.  She  was  richer  in 
personal  power  for  that  experience  ;  but  she  was  not 
grateful  for  it  nor  for  his  devotion. 

"  You  mean,  in  fact,  that  I — for  you  make  the  personal 
application  —  shall  be  better  able  henceforth  to  win 
men's  love,  because — ah,  surely,  Dr.  Marmion,  you  do 
not  dignify  this  impulse,  this  foolishness  of  yours,  by  the 
name  of  love  ?  "  And  she  smiled  a  little  satirically  at 
the  fingers  I  had  kissed. 

I  was  humiliated,  and  annoyed  with  her  and  with  my- 
self, though  down  in  my  heart  I  knew  that  she  was 
right.  "  I  mean,"  I  said,  "  that  I  can  understand  how 
men  have  committed  suicide  because  of  just  such  things. 
My  wonder  is,  that  Anson,  poor  devil,  did  not  do  it." 
I  knew  I  was  talking  foolishly. 

"  He  hadn't  the  courage,  my  dear  sir.  He  was  gentle- 
manly enough  to  die,  but  not  to  be  heroic  to  that  extent ; 
for  it  does  need  a  strong  dash  of  heroism  to  take  one's 
own  life.  As  I  conceive  it,  suicide  would  have  been  the 
best  thing  for  him  when  he  sinned  against  the  code. 
The  world  would  have  pitied  him  then,  would  have  said  : 
'  He  spared  us  the  trial  of  punishing  him.'  But  to  pay 
the  vulgar  penalty  of  prison — Ah  !  "  She  shuddered, 
and  then,  almost  coldly,  continued  :  "  Suicide  is  an  act 
of  importance  ;  it  shows  that  a  man  recognizes  at  least 
the  worthlessness  of  his  life.  He  does  one  dramatic  and 
powerful  thing  ;  he  has  an  instant  of  great  courage,  and 
all  is  over.  If  it  had  been  a  duel  in  which,  in  intention, 
he  would  fire  wide,  and  his  assailant  would  fire  to  kill, 
so  much  the  better  ;  so  much  the  more  would  the  world 
pity.  But  either  is  superior  as  a  final  situation  than 
death  with  a  broken  heart, — I  suppose  that  is  possible — 
and  disgrace,  in  a  hospital." 

"  You  seem  to  think  only  of  the  present,  only  of  the 
cude  and  the  World  ;  and  as  if  there  were  no  heroism  in 
a  man  living  down  his  shame,  righting  himself  heroically 


MRS.    FALCHION.  6l 

at  all  points  possible,  bearing  his  penalty,  and  showing 
the  courage  of  wearing  daily  the  sackcloth  of  remorse 
and  restitution." 

"  Oh  !  "  she  persisted,  "  you  make  me  angry.  I  know 
what  you  wish  to  express  ;  I  know  that  you  consider  it  a 
sin  to  take  one's  life,  even  in  '  the  high  Roman  fashion.' 
But,  frankly,  I  do  not ;  and  I  fear,  or  rather,  I  fancy,  that 
I  never  shall.  After  all,  your  belief  is  a  pitiless  one  ; 
for,  as  I  have  tried  to  say,  the  man  hasn't  himself  alone 
to  consider,  but  those  to  whom  his  living  is  a  perpetual 
shame  and  menace  and  cruelty  insupportable — insup- 
portable ! — Now,  please,  let  us  change  the  subject  final- 
ly ;  and — "  here  she  softly  laughed — "forgive  me  if  I 
have  treated  your  fancied  infatuation  lightly.  I  want 
you  for  a  friend  ;   at  least  for  a  pleasant  acquaintance. 

I  do  not  want  you  for  a  lover." 

We  both  rose.  I  was  not  quite  content  with  her  nor 
with  myself  yet.  I  felt  sure  that  while  she  did  not  wish 
me  as  a  lover,  she  was  not  averse  to  my  playing  the 
devoted  cavalier,  who  should  give  all  while  she  should 
give  nothing.  I  knew  that  my  punishment  had  already 
begun.  We  paced  the  deck  in  silence  ;  and  once,  as  we 
walked  far  aft,  I  saw  leaning  upon  the  railing  of  the  in- 
termediate deck,  and  looking  towards  us,  Boyd  Madras  ; 
and  the  words  of  that  letter  which  he  wrote  on  the  No 
Man's  Sea  came  to  me. 

At  length  she  said  :  "  You  have  made  no  reply  to  my 
last  remark.  Are  we  to  be  friends,  and  not  lovers  ?  Or 
are  you  going  to  cherish  enmity  against  me  ?  Or,  worse 
still,"  and  here  she  laughed,  I  thought  a  little  ironically, 
"  avoid  me,  and  be  as  icy  as  you  have  been — fervid  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Falchion,"  I  said,  "your  enemy  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  ;  I  could  not  be  if  I  wished.  But,  for  the  rest,  you 
must  please  let  me  see  what  I  may  think  of  myself  to- 
morrow.   There's  much  virtue  in  <  to-morrow,'  "  I  added, 

II  it  enables  one  to  get  perspective." 


62  MRS.    FALCHION. 

"  I  understand,"  she  said,  and  became  silent.  We 
walked  the  deck  slowly  for  several  minutes.  Then  we 
were  accosted  by  two  ladies  of  a  committee  that  had 
the  fancy  dress  ball  in  hand.  They  wished  to  consult 
Mrs.  Falchion  in  certain  matters  of  costume  and  decora- 
tion, for  which,  it  had  been  discovered,  she  had  a  peculiar 
faculty.  She  turned  to  me  half  inquiringly,  and  I  bade 
her  good-night,  inwardly  determined  (how  easy  it  is,  after 
having  failed  to  gratify  ourselves)  that  the  touch  of  her 
fingers  should  never  again  make  my  heart  beat  faster. 

I  joined  Colonel  Ryder  and  Clovelly  in  the  smoking- 
room.  Hungerford,  as  I  guessed  gladly,  was  gone.  I 
was  too  much  the  coward  to  meet  his  eye  just  then. 
Colonel  Ryder  was  estimating  the  amount  he  would 
wager — if  he  were  in  the  habit  of  betting — that  the  Fulvia 
could  not  turn  round  in  her  tracks  in  twenty  minutes. 
He  was  opposed  by  Clovelly.  The  bookmaker  was 
chaffing  them  both.  He  was  sometimes  profane,  but 
there  was  a  deferential  tone  in  his  strong  language,  a 
hesitating  quaintness,  which  made  it  irresistible.  He  was 
at  the  service  of  any  person  on  board  needing  cham- 
pionship. His  talents  were  varied.  He  could  suggest 
harmonies  in  colour  to  the  ladies  at  one  moment,  and  at 
the  next,  in  the  seclusion  of  the  bar-counter,  arrange 
deadly  harmonies  in  liquor.  He  was  an  authority  on  act- 
ing ;  he  knew  how  to  edit  a  newspaper  ;  he  picked  out  the 
really  nice  points  in  the  sermons  delivered  by  the  mis- 
sionaries in  the  saloon  ;  he  had  some  marvellous  theories 
about  navigation  ;  and  his  trick  with  a  salad  was  superb. 
He  now  convulsed  the  idlers  in  the  smoking-room  with 
laughter,  and  soon  deftly  drew  off  the  discussion  to  the 
speed  of  the  vessel,  arranging  a  sweepstake  immediately 
upon  the  possibilities  of  the  run.  He  instantly  proposed 
to  sell  the  numbers  by  auction.  He  was  the  auctioneer. 
With  his  eye-glass  to  his  eye,  and  Bohemian  pleasantry 
falling  from  his  lips,  he  ran  the  prices  up.    He  was  selling 


MRS.    FALCHION.  63 

Clovelly's  number,  and  had  advanced  it  beyond  the  nov- 
elist's own  bidding,  when  the  screw  stopped  suddenly, 
the  engines  ceased  working,  and  the  Fulvia  slowed  down. 
The  tickets  remained  unsold.  Word  came  to  us  that 
an  accident  had  happened  to  the  machinery,  and  that  we 
should  be  hove-to  for  a  day  or  longer,  to  accomplish 
necessary  repairs.  How  serious  the  accident  to  the 
machinery  was  no  one  knew. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ACCUSING    FACES. 

While  we  were  hove-to,  the  Porcupine  passed  us.  In 
all  probability  it  would  now  get  to  Aden  ahead  of  us, 
and  herein  lay  a  development  of  the  history  of  Mrs.  Fal- 
chion. I  was  standing  beside  Belle  Treherne  as  the  ship 
came  within  hail  of  us  and  signalled  to  see  what  was  the 
matter.  Mrs.  Falchion  was  not  far  from  us.  She  was 
looking  intently  at  the  vessel  through  marine  glasses,  and 
she  did  not  put  them  down  until  it  had  passed.  Then 
she  turned  away  with  an  abstracted  light  in  her  eyes  and 
a  wintry  smile.  And  the  look  and  the  smile  continued 
when  she  sat  down  in  her  deck  chair  and  leaned  her 
cheek  meditatively  on  the  marine  glass.  But  I  saw  now 
that  something  was  added  to  the  expression  of  her  face — 
a  suggestion  of  brooding  or  wonder.  Belle  Treherne, 
noticing  the  direction  of  my  glances,  said  :  "  Have  you 
known  Mrs.  Falchion  long  ?  " 

"  No,  not  long,"  I  replied.  "  Only  since  she  came  on 
board." 

"  She  is  very  clever,  I  believe." 

I  felt  my  face   flushing,  though  reasonably  there  was 
no  occasion  for  it,  and  said  :    "  Yes,  she  is  one   of  the 
ablest  women  I  have  ever  met." 
5 


64  MRS.    FALCHION. 

"  She  is  beautiful  too,  very  beautiful."  This  very 
frankly. 

"  Have  you  talked  with  her  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Yes,  a  little  this  morning,  for  the  first  time.  She  did 
not  speak  much,  however. "  Here  Miss  Treherne  paused, 
and  then  said  meditatively  :  "  Do  you  know,  she  im- 
pressed me  as  having  singular  frankness  and  singular 
reserve  as  well.  I  think  I  admired  it.  There  is  no  feel- 
ing in  her  talk,  and  yet  great  candor.  I  never  before 
met  anyone  like  her.  She  doesn't  wear  her  heart  upon 
her  sleeve,  I  fancy." 

A  moment  of  irony  came  over  me,  that  desire  to  say 
what  one  really  does  not  believe  (a  feminine  trait),  and 
I  replied  :  "  Are  both  those  articles  necessary  to  anyone  ? 
A  sleeve  ? — Well,  one  must  be  clothed  ;  but  a  heart  ? — 
a  cumbrous  thing,  as  I  take  it." 

Belle  Treherne  turned,  and  looked  me  steadily  in  the 
eyes  for  an  instant,  as  if  she  had  suddenly  awakened 
from  abstraction,  and  slowly  said,  as  she  drew  back 
slightly  :  "  Dr.  Marmion,  I  am  only  a  girl,  I  know,  and 
inexperienced  ;  but  I  hoped  most  people  of  education 
and  knowledge  of  life  were  free  from  that  kind  of 
cynicism  to  be  read  of  in  books."  Then  something  in 
her  thoughts  seemed  to  chill  her  words  and  manner,  and 
her  father  coming  up  a  moment  after,  she  took  his  arm, 
and  walked  away  with  a  not  very  cordial  bow  to  me. 

The  fact  is,  with  a  woman's  quick  intuition,  she 
had  read  in  my  tone  something  suggestive  of  my  recent 
experience  with  Mrs.  Falchion.  Her  fine  girlishness 
awoke  ;  the  purity  of  her  thoughts  rose  in  opposition 
to  my  flippancy  and  to  me,  and  I  knew  that  I  had 
roused  a  prejudice  not  easy  to  destroy.  This  was  on  a 
Friday  afternoon.  On  the  Saturday  evening  following, 
the  fancy  dress  ball  was  to  occur.  The  accident  to  the 
machinery  and  our  delay  were  almost  forgotten  in  the 
preparations    therefor.      I    had   little  to  do  ;  there  was 


MRS.    FALCHION.  65 

only  one  really  sick  man  on  board,  and  my  hand  could 
not  cure  his  sickness.  How  he  fared,  my  uncomfortable 
mind,  now  bitterly  alive  to  a  sense  of  duty,  almost  hesi- 
tated to  inquire.  Yet  a  change  had  come.  A  reaction 
had  set  in  for  me.  Would  it  be  permanent  ?  I  dared 
scarcely  answer  that  question  with  Mrs.  Falchion  on  my 
right  hand  at  table,  with  her  musical  voice  in  my  ear. 
I  was  not  quite  myself  yet.  I  was  struggling,  as  it  were, 
with  the  effects  of  an  opium  dream.  Still,  I  had  deter- 
mined upon  my  course.  I  had  made  resolutions.  I  had 
ended  the  chapter  of  dalliance.  I  had  wished  to  go  to 
116  Intermediate  and  let  its  occupant  demand  what 
satisfaction  he  would  ;  I  wanted  to  say  to  Hungerford 
that  I  was  an  ass  ;  but  that  was  even  harder  still.  He 
was  so  thorough  and  uncompromising  in  nature,  so 
strong  in  moral  fibre,  that  I  felt  his  sarcasm  would  be 
too  outspoken  for  me  at  present.  In  this,  however, 
I  did  not  give  him  credit  for  his  fine  sense  of  considera- 
tion, as  after  events  showed. 

Although  there  had  been  no  spoken  understanding 
between  us  that  Mrs.  Falchion  was  the  wife  of  Boyd 
Madras,  the  mind  of  one  was  the  other's  also.  I  under- 
stand exactly  why  he  told  me  Boyd  Madras's  story :  it 
was  a  warning.  He  was  not  the  man  to  harp  on  things. 
He  gave  the  hint,  and  there  the  matter  ended,  so  far 
as  he  was  concerned,  until  a  time  might  come  when  he 
should  think  it  his  duty  to  refer  to  the  subject  again. 
Some  time  before,  he  had  shown  me  the  portrait  of 
the  girl  who  had  promised  to  be  his  wife.  She,  of  course, 
could  trust  him,  anywhere,  everywhere. 

Mrs.  Falchion  had  seen  the  change  in  me,  and,  I  am 
sure,  guessed  the  fresh  direction  of  my  thoughts,  and 
knew  that  I  wished  to  take  refuge  in  a  new  companion- 
ship— a  thing,  indeed,  not  easily  to  be  achieved,  as  I 
felt  now  ;  for  no  girl  of  delicate,  proud  temper  would 
complacently  regard   a   hasty  transference   of  attention 


66  MRS.    FALCHION. 

from  another  to  herself.  Besides,  it  would  be  neither 
courteous  nor  reasonable  to  break  with  Mrs.  Falchion 
abruptly.  The  error  was  mine,  not  hers.  She  had  not 
my  knowledge  of  the  immediate  circumstances  which 
made  my  position  morally  untenable.  She  showed  un- 
embarrassed ignorance  of  the  change.  At  the  same 
time,  I  caught  a  tone  of  voice  and  a  manner  which 
showed  she  was  not  actually  oblivious,  but  was  touched 
in  that  nerve  called  vanity  ;  and  from  this  much  femi- 
nine hatred  springs. 

I  made  up  my  mind  to  begin  a  course  of  scientific 
reading,  and  was  seated  in  my  cabin,  vainly  trying  to 
digest  a  treatise  on  the  pathology  of  the  nervous  system, 
when  Hungerford  appeared  at  the  door.  With  a  nod 
he  entered,  threw  himself  down  on  the  cabin-sofa,  and 
asked  for  a  match.  After  a  pause,  he  said  :  "  Marmion, 
Boyd  Madras,  alias  Charles  Boyd,  has  recognized  me." 

I  rose  to  get  a  cigar,  thus  turning  my  face  from  him, 
and  said  :    "  Well  ?  " 

"  Well,  there  isn't  anything  very  startling.  I  suppose 
he  wishes  I  had  left  him  in  the  dinghey  on  No  Man's  Sea. 
He's  a  fool." 

"  Indeed,  why  ?  " 

"  Marmion,  are  your  brains  softening  ?  Why  does  he 
shadow  a  woman  who  wouldn't  lift  her  finger  to  save  him 
from  battle,  murder,  or  sudden  death  ? " 

"  From  the  code,"  I  said  in  half  soliloquy. 

"  From  the  what  ?  " 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  Hungerford  !  I  suppose  he  is  shad- 
owing— Mrs.  Falchion  ?  " 

He  eyed  me  closely. 

"  I  mean  the  woman  that  chucked  his  name ;  that 
turned  her  back  on  him  when  he  was  in  trouble  ;  that 
hopes  he  is  dead,  if  she  doesn't  believe  that  actually  he 
is  ;  that  would,  no  doubt,  treat  him  as  a  burglar  if  he 
went  to  her,  got  down  on  his  knees,  and  said  :  '  Mercy, 


MRS.    FALCHION.  67 

my  girl,  I  have,  come  back  to  you,  a  penitent  prodigal. 
Henceforth,  I  shall  be  as  straight  as  the  sun,  so  help  me 
Heaven  and  your  love  and  forgiveness  ! '  " 

Hungerford  paused,  as  if  expecting  me  to  reply  ;  but, 
leaning  forward  on  my  knees  and  smoking  hard,  I  re- 
mained silent.  This  seemed  to  anger  him,  for  he  said  a 
little  roughly  :  "  Why  doesn't  he  come  out  and  give  you 
blazes  on  the  promenade  deck,  and  corner  her  down  with 
a  mighty  cheek,  and  levy  on  her  for  a  thousand  pounds  ? 
Both  you  and  she  would  think  more  of  him.  Women 
don't  dislike  being  bullied  if  it  is  done  in  the  right 
way.  Haven't  I  seen  it  the  world  over,  from  lubra  to 
dowager  ?  I  tell  you,  man,  sinning  or  not,  was  meant  to 
be  woman's  master  and  lover,  and  just  as  much  one  as 
the  other." 

At  this  point,  Hungerford's  manner  underwent  a  slight 
change,  and  he  continued  :  "  Marmion,  I  wouldn't  have 
come  near  you,  only  I  noticed  you  have  altered  your 
course,  and  are  going  on  a  fresh  tack.  It  isn't  my  habit 
to  worry  a  man.  I  gave  you  a  signal,  and  you  didn't 
respond  at  first.  Well,  we  have  come  within  hail  again, 
and  now  don't  you  think  that  you  might  help  to  straighten 
this  tangle  and  try  to  arrange  a  reconciliation  between 
those  two  ?  The.  scheme  is  worth  trying.  Nobody  need 
know  but  you  and  me.  It  wouldn't  be  much  of  a  sacrifice 
to  her  to  give  him  a  taste  of  the  thing  she  swore  to  do. 
How  does  it  run  ? — '  To  have  and  to  hold  from  this  day 
forward  ' — I  can't  recall  it  ;  but  it's  whether  the  wind 
blows  fair  or  foul,  the  keel  scrapes  the  land  or  gives  to 
the  rock,  till  the  sea  gulps  one  of  'em  down  forever. 
That's  the  sense  of  the  thing,  Marmion,  and  the  contract 
holds  between  the  two,  straight  on  into  the  eternal  belly. 
Whatever  happens,  a  husband  is  a  husband,  and  a  wife 
a^vife.  It  seems  to  me  that,  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  it's 
he  that's  running  fair  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind,  every  tim- 
ber straining,  and  she  that's  riding  with  it,  well  coaled, 


68  MRS.    FALCHION. 

flags  flying,  in  an  open  channel,  and  passing  the  derelict 
without  so  much  as  "  Ahoy  there  "  ! 

Now,  at  this  distance  of  time  I  look  back  and  see  Hun- 
gerford,  "  the  rowdy  sailor,"  as  he  called  himself,  lying 
there,  his  dark  grey  eyes  turned  full  on  me  ;  and  I  am 
convinced  that  no  honester,  more  sturdy-minded  man 
ever  reefed  a  sail,  took  his  turn  upon  the  bridge,  or 
walked  the  dry  land  in  the  business  of  life.  It  did  not 
surprise  me,  a  year  after,  when  I  saw  in  public  prints  that 
he  was  the  hero  of — but  that  must  be  told  elsewhere. 
I  was  about  to  answer  him  then,  as  I  knew  he  would 
wish,  when  a  steward  appeared  and  said  :  "  Mr.  Boyd, 
116  Intermediate,  wishes  you  would  come  to  him,  sir,  if 
you  would  be  so  kind." 

Hungerford  rose,  and,  as  I  made  ready  to  go,  urged 
quietly  :  "  You've  got  the  charts  and  soundings,  Mar- 
mion,  steam  ahead  ;  "  and,  with  a  swift  but  kindly 
clinch  of  my  shoulder,  left  me.  In  that  moment  there 
came  a  cowardly  feeling,  a  sense  of  shamefacedness  ; 
and  then,  hard  upon  it  and  overwhelming  it,  a  determi- 
nation to  serve  Boyd  Madras  so  far  as  lay  in  my  power  ; 
and  to  be  a  man,  and  not  a  coward  and  an  idler. 

When  I  found  him,  he  was  prostrate.  In  his  eyes 
there  was  no  anger,  no  indignation,  no  sullenness — all  of 
which  he  might  reasonably  have  felt  ;  and,  instantly,  I 
was  ashamed  of  the  thought  which,  as  I  came  to  him, 
flashed  through  my  mind,  that  he  might  do  some  violent 
thing.  Not  that  I  had  any  fear  of  violence,  but  I  had 
an  active  dislike  of  awkward  circumstances.  I  felt  his 
fluttering  pulse,  and  noted  the  blue  line  on  his  warped 
lips.  I  gave  him  some  medicine,  and  then  sat  down. 
There  was  a  silence.  What  could  I  say?  A  dozen 
thoughts  came  to  my  mind,  but  I  rejected  them.  It  was 
difficult  to  open  the  subject. 

At  last  he  put  his  hand  upon  my  arm  and  spoke. 
"  You  told  me  one  night  that  vou  would  help  me,  if  you 


MRS.    FALCHION.  69 

could.     I  ought  to  have  accepted  your  offer  at  first:  it 

would  have  been  better No,  please  don't  speak  just 

yet.  I  think  I  know  what  you  would  say.  I  knew  that 
you  meant  all  you  urged  upon  me  ;  that  you  liked  me. 
I  was  once  worthy  of  men's  liking,  perhaps,  and  I  had 
good  comrades  ;  but  that's  all  over.  You  have  not  come 
near  me  lately,  but  it  wasn't  because  you  felt  any  neglect, 
or  wished  to  take  back  your  words ;  but — because  of 
something  else.  ...  I  understand  it  all.  She  has  great 
power.       She    always   had.       She  is  very  beautiful.       I 

remember   when but  I  will  not   call  it  back  before 

you,  though,  God  knows,  I  go  over  it  all  every  day  and 
every  night,  until  it  seems  that  only  the  memory  of  her 
is  real,  and  that  she  herself  is  a  ghost.  I  ought  not  to 
have  crossed  her  path  again,  even  unknown  to  her.  But 
I  have  done  it,  and  now  I  cannot  go  out  of  that  path 
without  speaking  to  her  once  again,  as  I  did  long  ago. 
Having  seen  her,  breathed  the  same  air,  I  must  speak  or 
die  ;  perhaps  it  will  be  both.  That  is  a  power  she  has  : 
she  can  bend  one  to  her  will,  although  she  often  invol- 
untarily wills  things  that  are  death  to  others.  One  must 
care  for  her,  you  understand.  It  is  natural,  even  when 
it's  torture  to  do  so." 

He  put  his  hand  on  his  side  and  moved  as  if  in  pain. 
I  reached  over  and  felt  his  pulse,  then  took  his  hand  and 
pressed  it,  saying  :  "  I  will  be  your  friend  now,  Boyd 
Madras,  in  so  far  as  I  can,  God  helping  me  !  " 

He  looked  up  at  me  gratefully,  and  replied  :  "  I  know 
that/ 1  know  that.     It  is  more  than  I  deserve." 

Then  he  began  to  speak  of  his  past.  He  told  me  of 
Hungerford's  kindness  to  him  on  the  Dancing  Kate,  of 
his  luckless  days  at  Port  Darwin,  of  his  search  for  his 
wife,  his  writing  to  her,  and  her  refusal  to  see  him.  He 
did  not  rail  against  her.  He  apologized  for  her,  and 
reproached  himself.  "  She  is  very  beautiful,"  he  contin- 
ued :  "  and  different  from  most  women.     She  never  said 


70  MRS.    FALCHION. 

she  loved  me,  and  she  never  did,  I  know.  Her  father 
urged  her  to  marry  me.  He  thought  I  was  a  good  man." 
Here  he  laughed  a  little  bitterly. 

"  But  it  was  a  bad  day  for  her.  She  never  loved  any- 
one, I  think,  and  she  cannot  understand  what  love  is, 
though  many  have  cared  for  her.  She  is  silent  where 
herself  is  concerned.  I  think  there  was  some  trouble — 
not  love,  I  am  sure  of  that — which  vexed  her,  and  made 
her  a  little  severe  at  times  ;  something  connected  with 
her  life,  or  her  father's  life,  in  Samoa.  One  can  only 
guess,  but  white  men  take  what  are  called  '  native  wives' 
there  very  often;  and  who  can  tell? — Her  father — but 
that  is  her  secret !  .  .  .  While  I  was  right  before  the 
world,  she  was  a  good  wife  to  me  in  her  way.  When  I 
went  wrong,  she  treated  me  as  if  I  were  dead,  and  took 
her  old  name.  .  .  .  But  if  I  could  speak  to  her 
quietly  once  more,  perhaps  she  would  listen.  It  would 
do  no  good  at  all  to  write.  Perhaps  she  would  never 
begin  the  world  with  me  again,  but  I  should  like  to  hear 
her  say,  '  I  forgive  you.  Good-by.'  There  would  be 
some  comfort  in  a  kind  farewell  from  her.  You  can  see 
that,  Dr.  Marmion  ?  " 

He  paused,  waiting  for  me  to  speak.  "  Yes,  I  can  see 
that,"  I  said,  and  then  I  added  :  "  Why  did  you  not  speak 
to  her  before  you  both  came  on  board  at  Colombo  ?  " 

"  I  had  no  chance.  I  only  saw  her  in  the  streets  an 
hour  before  the  ship  sailed.  I  had  scarcely  time  to  take 
my  passage." 

Pain  here  checked  his  utterance,  and,  when  he  re- 
covered, he  turned  again  to  me,  and  continued  :  "  To- 
morrow night  there  is  a  fancy  dress  ball  on  board.  I 
have  been  thinking.  I  could  go  in  a  good  disguise.  I 
could  speak  to  her,  and  attract  no  notice  ;  and  if  she  will 
not  listen  to  me,  why,  then,  that  ends  it  ;  I  shall  know 
the  worst,  and  to  know  the  worst  is  best." 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  and  what  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ? " 


MRS.    FALCHT'ON.  7 1 

"  I  wish  to  go  in  a  disguise,  of  course  ;  to  dress  in  your 
cabin  if  you  will  let  me.  I  cannot  dress  here.  It  would 
attract  attention  ;   and  I  am  not  a  first-class  passenger." 

"I  fear,"  I  replied,  "that  it  is  impossible  to  assist 
you  to  the  privileges  of  a  first-class  passenger.  You 
see,  I  am  an  officer  of  the  ship.  But  still  I  can  help  you. 
You  shall  leave  this  cabin  to-night.  I  will  arrange  so 
that  you  may  transfer  yourself  to  one  in  the  first-class 
section.  .  .  .  No,  not  a  word.  It  must  be  as  I  wish 
in  this.  You  are  ill.  I  can  do  you  that  kindness,  at  least, 
and  then,  by  right,  you  can  attend  the  ball,  and,  after  it, 
your  being  among  the  first-class  passengers  can  make 
little  difference,  for  you  will  have  met  and  spoken  then, 
either  to  reconciliation  or  otherwise." 

I  had  very  grave  doubts  of  any  reconciliation,  the 
substance  of  my  notable  conversation  with  Mrs.  Falchion 
vas  so  prominent  in  my  mind.  I  feared  she  would  only 
reproduce  the  case  of  Anson  and  his  wife.  I  was  also 
afraid  of  a  possible  scene  ;  which  showed  that  I  was  not 
yet  able  to  judge  of  her  resources.  After  a  silence  I  said 
to  Boyd  Madras  :  "  But  suppose  she  should  be  frightened, 
should — should  make  a  scene  ?  " 

He  raised  himself  to  a  sitting  posture.  "  I  feel  better," 
he  said.  Then,  answering  my  question  :  "  You  do  not 
know  her  quite.  She  will  not  stir  a  muscle.  She  has 
nerve.  I  have  seen  her  in  positions  of  great  peril  and 
trial.  She  is  not  emotional,  though  I  think  she  will  wake 
one  day  and  find  her  heart  all  fire — but  not  for  me.  Still, 
I  say  that  all  will  be  quite  comfortable,  so  far  as  any 
demonstration  on  her  part  is  concerned.  She  will  not  be 
excitable,  I  assure  you." 

"  And  the  disguise — your  dress  ?  "  inquired  I. 

He  rose  from  the  berth  slowly,  and  opening  a  portman- 
teau, drew  from  it  a  cloth  of  white  and  red,  fringed  with 
gold.  It  was  of  beautiful  texture,  and  made  into  the 
form  of  a  toga  or  mantle  ;  and  he  said  :  "  I  was  a  seller 


72  MRS.    FALCHION. 

of  such  stuffs  in  Colombo,  and  these  I  brought  with  me, 
because  I  could  not  dispose  of  them  without  sacrifice 
when  I  left  hurriedly.  I  have  made  them  into  a  mantle. 
I  could  go  as  a  noble  Roman,  perhaps !  "  A  slight 
ironical  smile  crossed  his  lips,  and  he  stretched  out  his 
thin  but  shapely  arms  as  if  in  derision  of  himself. 

"You  will  go  as  Menelaus  the  Greek,"  said  I. 

"  I,  as  Menelaus  the  Greek  ? "  The  smile  became  a 
little  grim. 

"  Yes,  as  Menelaus  ;  and  I  will  go  as  Paris."  I  doubt 
not  that  my  voice  showed  a  good  deal  of  self-scorn  at  the 
moment ;  but  there  was  a  kind  of  luxury  in  self-abase- 
ment before  him.  "  Your  wife,  I  know,  intends  to  go  as 
Helen  of  Troy.  It  is  all  mumming.  Let  it  stand  so,  as 
Menelaus  and  Helen  and  Paris  before  there  was  any 
Trojan  war,  and  as  if  there  never  could  be  any  ;  as  if 
Paris  went  back  alone  sorry,  and  the  other  two  were 
reconciled." 

His  voice  was  low  and  broken.  "  I  know  you  exagger- 
ate matters,  and  condemn  yourself  beyond  reason,"  he 
replied.  "  I  will  do  all  you  say.  But,  Dr.  Marmion,  it 
will  not  be  all  mumming,  as  you  shall  see." 

A  strange  look  came  upon  his  face  at  this.  I  could 
not  construe  it  ;  and  after  a  few  words  of  explanation 
regarding  his  transference  to  the  forward  part  of  the  ship, 
I  left  him.  I  found  the  purser,  made  the  necessary 
arrangements  for  him,  and  then  went  to  my  cabin, 
humbled  in  many  ways.  I  went  troubled  to  bed.  After 
a  long  wakefulness  I  dozed  away  into  that  disturbed 
vestibule  of  sleep,  where  the  world's  happenings  mingle 
with  the  visions  of  unconsciousness.  I  seemed  to  watch 
a  man's  heart  beating  in  his  bosom  in  growing  agonies, 
until,  with  one  last  immense  palpitation,  it  burst,  and 
life  was  gone.  Then  the  dream  changed,  and  I  saw  a 
man  in  the  sea  drowning,  who  seemed  never  to  drown 
entirely,  his  hands  ever  beating  the  air  and  the  mocking 


MRS.    FALCHION.  73 

water.  I  thought  that  I  tried  many  times  to  throw  him 
a  lighted  buoy  in  the  half-shadow,  but  some  one  held 
me  back,  and  I  knew  that  a  woman's  arms  were  round 
me.  But  at  last  the  drowning  man  looked  up  and  saw 
the  woman  so,  and,  with  a  last  quiver  of  the  arms, 
sank  from  sight.  When  he  was  gone  the  woman's  arms 
dropped  away  from  me  ;  but  when  I  turned  to  speak  to 
her,  she  too  had  gone. 

Two  stewards  were  talking  in  the  passage.  One 
was  saying  :  "  She'll  get  under  way  by  daybreak,  and  it 
will  be  a  race  with  the  Porcupine  to  Aden.  How  the 
engines  are  kicking  !  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 


MUMMERS  ALL. 


The  next  day  was  beautiful  if  not  enjoyable.  Stir- 
ring preparations  were  being  made  for  the  ball.  Boyd 
Madras  was  transferred  to  a  cabin  far  forward,  but  he 
did  not  appear  at  any  meal  in  the  saloon,  or  on  deck. 
In  the  morning  I  was  busy  in  the  dispensary.  While  I 
was  there,  Justine  Caron  came  to  get  a  head-ache  mix- 
ture. Her  hand  was  now  nearly  well.  Justine  had 
nerves,  and  it  appeared  to  me  that  her  efforts  to  please 
her  mistress,  and  her  occasional  failures,  were  wearing 
her  unduly.  I  said  to  her  :  "  You  have  been  worried, 
Miss  Caron." 

"Oh,  no,  Doctor  ! "  she  quickly  replied. 

I  looked  at  her  a  little  sceptically,  and  she  said  at 
last  :  "  Well,  perhaps  a  little.  You  see,  Madame  did  not 
sleep  well  last  night,  and  I  read  to  her.  It  was  a  little 
difficult,  and  there  was  not  much  choice  of  books." 

"  What  did  you  read  ?  "  I  asked  with  no  purpose  as  I 
prepared  her  medicine. 


74  MRS.    FALCHION. 

"  Oh,  some  French  novel  first — De  Maupassant's  ;  but 
Madame  said  he  was  impertinent  ;  that  he  made  women 
fools  and  men  devils.  Then  I  tried  some  modern  Eng- 
lish tales,  but  she  said  they  were  silly.  I  knew  not  what 
to  do.  But  there  was  Shakespere.  I  read  Antony  a?id 
Cleopatra,  and  she  said  the  play  was  grand,  but  that  the 
people  were  foolish  except  when  they  died  ;  their  deaths 
were  magnificent.  Madame  is  a  great  critic  ;  she  is  very 
clever." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  that ;  but  when  did  she  fall 
asleep  ?" 

"  About  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  was  glad, 
because  she  is  very  beautiful  when  she  has  much 
sleep." 

"  And  you — does  not  sleep  concern  you  in  this  matter 
of  Madame  ?  " 

"For  me,"  she  said,  looking  away,  "it  is  nothing. 
I  have  no  beauty.  Besides,  I  am  Madame's  servant — " 
she  blushed  slightly  at  this — "  and  she  is  generous  with 
money." 

"  Yes,  and  you  like  money  so  much  ?" 

Her  eyes  flashed  a  little  defiantly  as  she  looked  me  in 
the  face.  "  It  is  everything  to  me."  She  paused  as  if 
to  see  the  effect  upon  me,  or  to  get  an  artificial  (I  knew 
it  was  artificial)  strength  to  go  on  ;  then  she  added  :  "  I 
love  money.  I  work  for  it,  I  would  bear  all  for  it — all 
that  a  woman  could  bear.  I — "  but  here  she  paused 
again,  and  though  the  eyes  still  flashed,  the  lips  quivered. 
Hers  was  not  a  face  of  cupidity.  It  was  sensitive  yet 
firm,  as  with  some  purpose  deep  as  her  nature  was  by 
creation  and  experience,  and  always  deepening  that 
nature.  I  suddenly  got  the  conviction  that  this  girl 
had  a  sorrow  of  some  kind  in  her  life,  and  that  this 
unreal  affection  for  money  was  connected  with  it.  She, 
perhaps,  saw  my  look  of  interest,  for  she  hurriedly  con- 
tinued :  "  But,  pardon  me,  I  am  foolish.    I  shall  be  better 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


75 


when  the  pain  is  gone.  Madame  is  kind  ;  she  will  let 
me  sleep  this  afternoon  perhaps." 

I  handed  her  the  medicine,  and  then  asked  :  "  How 
long  have  you  known  Mrs.  Falchion,  Miss  Caron  ? " 

"Only  one  year." 

"  Where  did  you  join  her  ?" 

"  In  Australia." 

"  In  Australia  ?     You  lived  there  ?  " 

"  No,  monsieur  ;  I  did  not  live  there." 

A  thought  came  to  my  mind — the  nearness  of  New 
Caledonia  to  Australia,  and  New  Caledonia  was  a  French 
colony — a  French  penal  colony !  I  smiled  as  I  said  the 
word  penal  to  myself.  Of  course  it  could  have  no  con- 
nection with  a  girl  like  her  ;  but  still  she  might  have 
lived  in  the  colony.  So  I  added  quietly  :  "  You  per- 
haps had  come  from  New  Caledonia  ? "  Her  look  was 
candid,  if  sorrowful.  "  Yes,  from  New  Caledonia."  Was 
she,  thought  I,  the  good  wife  of  some  convict,  some 
political  prisoner?  the  relative  of  a  refugee  of  misfor- 
tune ?  Whatever  she  was,  I  felt  that  she  was  free  from 
any  fault.  She  evidently  thought  that  I  might  suspect 
something  uncomplimentary  of  her,  for  she  said :  "  My 
brother  was  an  officer  at  Noumea.  He  is  dead.  I  am 
going  to  France,  when  I  can." 

I  tried  to  speak  kindly  to  her.  I  saw  that  her  present 
position  must  be  a  great  trial.  I  advised  her  to  take 
more  rest,  or  she  would  break  down  altogether,  for  she 
was  weak  and  nervous.  I  hinted  that  she  might  have  to 
give  up  entirely  if  she  continued  to  tax  herself  need- 
lessly. And,  finally,  that  I  would  speak  to  Mrs.  Falchion 
about  her.  I  was  scarcely  prepared  for  her  action  then. 
Tears  came  to  her  eyes,  and  she  said  to  me,  with  her 
hand  involuntarily  clasping  my  arm  :  "  Oh,  no  !  no  !  I 
ask  you  not  to  speak  to  Madame.  I  will  sleep.  I  will 
rest.  Indeed,  I  will.  This  service  is  so  much  to  me. 
She  is  most  generous.     It  is  because  I  am  so  altogether 


76  MRS.    FALCHION. 

hers,  night  or  day,  that  she  pays  me  well.  And  the 
money  is  so  much.  It  is  my  honor,  my  dead  brother's 
honor.  You  are  kind  at  heart  ;  you  will  make  me 
strong  with  medicine,  and  I  will  ask  God  to  bless  you. 
I  could  not  suffer  such  poverty  again.  And,  then,  it  is 
my  honor." 

I  knew  that  she  would  not  have  given  way  thus  if 
her  nerves  had  been  strong  ;  had  she  not  lived  so  much 
alone,  and  irregularly,  so  far  as  her  own  rest  and  comfort 
were  concerned  ;  and  at  such  perpetual  cost  to  her  energy. 
Mrs.  Falchion,  I  knew,  was  selfish,  and  would  not,  or 
could  not,  see  that  she  was  hard  upon  the  girl,  by  such 
exactions  as  midnight  reading  and  loss  of  sleep.  She 
demanded  not  merely  physical,  but  mental,  energy — a 
complete  submission  of  both  ;  and  when  this  occurred 
with  a  sensitive,  high-strung  girl,  she  was  really  feed- 
ing on  another's  life-blood.  If  she  had  been  told  this 
however,  she,  no  doubt,  would  have  been  much  sur- 
prised. 

I  reassured  Justine.  I  told  her  that  I  should  say  noth- 
ing directly  to  her  mistress,  for  I  saw  she  was  afraid  of 
unpleasantness.  But  I  impressed  upon  her  that  she 
must  spare  herself,  or  she  would  break  down  ;  and  ex- 
torted a  promise  that  she  would  object  to  sitting  up  after 
midnight  to  read  to  Mrs.  Falchion. 

When  this  was  done,  she  said  :  "  But  you  see  it  is  not 
Madame's  fault  that  I  am  troubled." 

"  I  do  not  wish,"  I  said,  "  to  know  any  secret.  I  am  a 
doctor,  not  priest  ;  but  if  there  is  anything  you  can  tell 
me,  in  which  I  might  be  able  to  help  you,  you  may  com- 
mand me  in  so  far  as  is  possible."  Candidly,  I  think  I 
was  too  inquiring  in  those  days. 

She  smiled  wistfully,  and  replied  :  "  I  will  think  of 
what  you  say  so  kindly,  and,  perhaps,  some  day  soon,  I 
will  tell  you  of  my  trouble.  But,  believe  me,  it  no  ques- 
tion of  wrong  at   all  by  any  one   now.     The  wrong  is 


MRS.    FALCHION.  77 

over.  It  is  simply  that  a  debt  of  honor  must  be  satis- 
fied ;  it  concerns  my  poor  dead  brother." 

"  Are  you  going  to  relatives  in  France  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,  I  have  no  relatives,  no  near  friends.  I  am  alone 
in  the  world.  My  mother  I  cannot  remember.  She 
died  when  I  was  very  young.  My  father  had  riches,  but 
they  went  before  he  died.  .  .  .  Still,  France  is  home, 
and  I  must  go  there. "  She  turned  her  head  away  to  the 
long  wastes  of  sea. 

Little  more  passed  between  us.  I  advised  her  to  come 
frequently  on  deck  and  mingle  with  the  passengers  ;  and 
told  her  that,  when  she  pleased,  I  should  be  glad  to  do 
any  service  that  lay  in  my  power.  Her  last  words  were, 
that,  after  we  put  into  Aden,  she  would,  possibly,  take 
me  at  my  word. 

And  from  that  moment  I  began  to  connect  Justine 
Caron  with  certain  events  which,  I  felt  sure,  were  mar- 
shalling to  some  unhappy  conclusion.  I  wondered,  too, 
what  part  I  should  play  in  the  development  of  the 
comedy,  tragedy,  or  whatever  it  was  to  be.  In  this 
connection,  I  thought  of  Belle  Treherne,  and  of  how  I 
should  appear  in  her  eyes,  if  that  little  scene  with  Mrs. 
Falchion,  now  always  staring  me  in  the  face,  were  re- 
hearsed before  her.  I  came  quickly  to  my  feet  with  a 
half-imprecation  at  myself.  The  verse  of  a  crude  sea^ 
song  was  in  my  ears  : 

"  You  can  batten  down  cargo,  live  and  dead, 
But  you  can't  put  mem'ry  out  of  sight  ; 
You  can  paint  the  full  sails  overhead, 

But  you  can't  make  a  black  deed  white.  ..." 

Angry,  I  said  to  myself,  "  It  wasn't  a  black  deed  ;  it  was 
foolish,  it  was  infatuation,  it  was  not  right ;  but  it  is  com- 
mon to  ship-board,  and  I  lost  my  head — that  was  all." 

Sometime  later  I  was  still  at  work  in  the  dispensary, 
when  I  heard  Mr.  Treherne's  voice  calling  me  from  out- 
side.    I  drew  back  the  curtain.     He  was  leaning  on  his 


78  MRS.    FALCHION. 

daughter's  arm,  while  in  one  hand  he  carried  a  stick. 
"  Ah,  Doctor,  Doctor,"  cried  he,  "  my  old  enemy,  sciatica, 
has  me  in  its  grip,  and  why,  in  this  warm  climate,  I  can't 
understand.  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  heave-to  like  the 
Falvia,  and  lay  up  for  repairs — and,  by  the  way,  I'm 
glad  we  are  on  our  course  again."  He  entered  and  sat 
down.  Belle  Treherne  bowed  to  me  gravely,  and  smiled 
slightly.  The  smile  was  not  peculiarly  hospitable.  I 
knew  perfectly  well,  that  to  convince  her  of  the  reality 
of  my  growing  admiration  would  be  no  easy  task.  But 
I  was  determined  to  base  my  new  religion  of  the  affections 
upon  unassailable  canons,  and  I  felt  that  now  I  could  do 
so  best  by  waiting  and  proving  myself. 

While  I  was  arranging  some  medicine  for  Mr.  Tre- 
herne and  advising  him  about  care  against  chills  in  a  hot 
climate,  he  suddenly  broke  in  with  :  "Dr.  Marmion,  Cap- 
tain Ascott  tells  me  that  we  shall  get  to  Aden  by  Tuesday 
morning  next.  Now,  I  was  asked  by  a  friend  of  mine  in 
London  to  visit  the  grave  of  a  son  of  his — a  newspaper 
correspondent — who  was  killed  in  one  of  the  expeditions 
against  the  native  tribes,  and  was  buried  in  the  general 
cemetery  at  Aden.  On  the  way  out  I  was  not  able  to 
fulfil  the  commission,  because  we  passed  Aden  in  the 
night.  But  there  will  be  plenty  of  time  to  do  so  on  Tues- 
day, I  am  told.  This,  however,  is  my  difficulty.  I  can- 
not go  unless  I  am  better,  and  I'm  afraid  there  is  no  such 
luck  as  that  in  store  for  me.  These  attacks  last  a  week  at 
least.  I  wish  my  daughter,  however,  to  go.  One  of  the 
ladies  on  board  will  go  with  her — Mrs.  Callendar  I 
believe  ;  and  I  am  going  to  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  you  to 
accompany  them,  if  you  will.  I  know  you  better  than  any 
officer  on  board  ;  and,  besides,  I  should  feel  safer  and 
better  satisfied  if  she  went  under  the  protection  of  an 
officer — these  barbarous  places,  you  know  ! — though,  of 
course,  it  may  be  asking  too  much  of  you,  or  what's  im- 
possible." 


MRS.    FALCHION.  79 

I  assented  with  pleasure.  Belle  Treherne  was  looking 
at  the  Latin  names  on  the  bottles  at  the  time,  and  her  face 
showed  no  expression  either  of  pleasure  or  displeasure. 
Mr.  Treherne  said  bluffly  :  "  Dr.  Marmion,  you  are  kind, 
very  kind,  and  upon  my  word  I'm  much  obliged."  He 
then  looked  at  his  daughter  as  if  expecting  her  to  speak. 

She  looked  up,  and  said  conventionally,  "You  are  very 
kind,  Dr.  Marmion,  and  I  am  much  obliged." 

Then  I  thought  her  eyes  twinkled  with  amusement  at 
her  own  paraphrase  of  her  father's  speech,  and  she  added  : 
"  Mrs.  Callendar  and  myself  will  be  much  honored  indeed, 
and  feel  very  important  in  having  an  officer  to  attend  us. 
Of  course  everybody  else  will  be  envious,  and,  again  of 
course,  that  will  add  to  our  vanity." 

At  this  she  would  have  gone,  but  her  father,  who  was 
suffering  just  enough  pain  to  enjoy  diversion,  fell  into 
conversation  upon  a  subject  of  mutual  interest,  in  which 
his  daughter  joined  on  occasion,  but  not  with  enthusiasm. 
Yet  when  they  came  to  go,  she  turned  and  said  kindly, 
almost  softly,  as  her  fingers  touched  mine  :  ''I  almost 
envy  you  your  profession,  Dr.  Marmion  ;  it  opens  doors 
to  so  much  of  humanity  and  life." 

"There  is  no  sin,"  I  laughingly  said,  "in  such  a  covet- 
ousness  ;  and,  believe  me,  it  can  do  no  harm  to  me  at 
least."  Then  I  added  gravely,  "  I  should  like  my  profes- 
sion, in  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  to  be  worth  your  envy." 
She  had  passed  through  the  door  before  the  last  words 
were  said,  but  I  saw  that  her  look  was  not  forbidding. 


Is  there  any  unhappiness  anywhere  ?  There  is  not  a  vex- 
ing toss  of  the  sea,  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky.  Is  not  catas- 
trophe dead  and  the  quiver  of  tragedy  spilled  ?  Peace 
broadens  into  deep,  perfumed  dusk  towards  Arabia, 
languor  spreads  towards  the  unknown  lands  of  the  far- 
thest south.      No  anxious  soul  leans  out  from  the  case- 


80  MRS.    FALCHION. 

ment  of  life  ;  the  time  is  heavy  with  delightful  ease. 
There  is  no  sound  that  troubles  ;  the  world  goes  by, 
and  no  one  heeds  ;  for  it  is  all  beyond  this  musky  twi- 
light and  this  pleasant  hour.  In  this  palace  on  the  sea, 
Mirth  goes  in  and  out  with  airy  and  harmonious  foot- 
steps. Even  the  clang-clang  of  eight  bells  has  music,  not 
boisterous  nor  disturbing,  but  muffled  in  the  velvety  air. 
Then  through  this  hemisphere  of  jocund  quiet  there 
sounds  the  "  All's  Well  "  of  the  watch. 

But,  look  !  Did  you  see  a  star  fall  just  then,  and  the 
long  avenue  of  expiring  flame  behind  it  ?  .  .  .  Do 
not  shudder.  It  is  nothing.  No  cry  of  pain  came 
through  that  brightness.  There  was  only  the  "  All's 
well  !  "  from  the  watcher. 

The  thud  of  the  engines  falls  on  a  padded  atmosphere, 
and  the  Lascars  move  like  ghosts  along  the  decks.  The 
long,  smooth  promenade  is  canopied,  and  curtained,  and 
bung  with  banners,  and  gay  devices  of  the  gorgeous 
East  are  contributing  to  the  federation  of  pleasure. 

And  now,  through  a  festooned  doorway,  there  come  the 
people  of  many  lands  to  inhabit  the  gay  court.  Music 
follows  their  footsteps  :  Hamlet  and  Esther,  Caractacus 
and  Iphigenia,  Napoleon  and  Hermione,  the  Man  in  the 
Iron  Mask  and  Sappho,  Garibaldi  and  Boadicea,  an  Arab 
sheikh  and  Joan  of  Arc,  Mahomet,  Casabianca,  Cleopatra 
and  Hannibal — a  resurrected  world.  .  .  .  But  the 
illusion  is  short  and  slight.  This  world  is  very  sordid — 
of  shreds  and  patches  after  all.  It  is  but  a  pretty  mas- 
querade, in  which  feminine  vanity  beats  hard  against 
strangely  clothed  bosoms,  and  masculine  conceit  is 
shown  in  the  work  of  the  barber's  curling  irons  and  the 
ship  carpenter's  wooden  swords  and  paper  helmets.  The 
pride  of  these  folk  is  not  diminished  because  Hamlet's 
wig  gets  awry,  or  a  Roman  has  trouble  with  his  foolish 
garters.  Few  men  or  women  can  resist  mumming  ;  they 
fancy  themselves  as  somebody  else,  dead  or  living.     Yet 


MRS.    FALCHION.  8l 

these  seem  happy  in  their  nonsense.  The  indolent  days 
appear  to  have  deadened  hatred,  malice,  and  all  unchari- 
tableness.  They  shall  strut  and  fret  their  hour  upon  this 
little  stage.  Let  that  sprightly  girl  forget  the  sudden 
death  which  made  her  an  orphan  ;  the  nervous  broker 
his  faithless  wife  ;  the  gray-haired  soldier  his  silly  and 
haunting  sins  ;  the  bankrupt  his  creditors. 

"  On  with  the  dance  ;  let  joy  be  unconfined  ! " 

For  the  captain  is  on  the  bridge,  the  engineer  is  below, 
we  have  a  stout  wall  and  a  ceaseless  sentry-go.  .  .  . 
In  the  intervals  of  the  dance,  wine  passes  and  idle 
things  are  said  beside  the  draped  and  cushioned  cap- 
stan or  in  the  friendly  gloom  of  a  boat,  which,  in  the 
name  of  safety,  hangs  taut  between  its  davits.  Let  this 
imitation  Cleopatra  use  the  Cleopatra's  arts  ;  this  mellow 
Romeo   (sometime    an  Irish  landlord)   vow   to    his  coy 

Juliet ;  this  Helen  of  Troy ■     Of  all  who  walk  these 

decks,  mantled  and  wigged,  in  characters  not  their  own, 
Mrs.  Falchion  was  the  handsomest,  most  convincing. 
With  a  graceful  swaying  movement  she  passed  along 
the  promenade,  and  even  envy  praised  her.  Her  hand 
lay  lightly  on  the  arm  of  a  brown,  stalwart  native  of  the 
Indian  Hills,  savage  in  attire.  Against  his  wild  pic- 
turesqueness  and  brawny  strength,  her  perfectness  of 
animal  beauty,  curbed  and  rendered  delicate  by  her 
inner  coldness,  showed  in  fine  contrast  ;  and  yet  both 
were  matched  in  the  fine  natural  prowess  of  form. 

With  a  singular  affirmation  of  what  had  been,  after  all, 
but  a  sadly  humorous  proposal,  I  had  attired  myself  in 
a  Greek  costume,  quickly  made  by  my  steward,  who  had 
been  a  tailor  ;  and  was  about  to  leave  my  cabin,  when 
Hungerford  entered  and  exclaimed,  as  he  took  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth  in  surprise  :  "  Marmion,  what  does  this 
mean  ?  Don't  you  know  your  duties  better  ?  No  officer 
may  appear  at  these  flare-ups  in  costume  other  than  his 


82  MRS.    FALCHION. 

uniform.  You're  the  finest  example  of  suburban  inno- 
cence and  original  sin  I've  seen  this  last  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury, wherein  I've  kept  the  world— and  you— from  totter- 
ing to  destruction."     He  reached  for  one  of  my  cigars. 

Without  a  word,  and  annoyed  at  my  own  stupidity,  I 
slowly  divested  myself  of  the  clothes  of  Greece  ;  while  . 
Hungerford  smoked  on,  humming  to  himself  occasionally 
a  few  bars  of  The  Buccaneer  s  Bride;  but  evidently  occu- 
pied with  something  in  his  mind.  At  length  he  said  : 
"  Marmion,  I  said  suburban  innocence  and  original  sin, 
but  you've  a  grip  on  the  law  of  square  and  compass  too. 
I'll  say  that  for  you,  old  chap, — and  I  hope  you  don't 
think  I'm  a  miserable  prig." 

Still    I    replied    nothing,  but  offered  him  one    of  my 
best  cigars,   taking  the    other  from    him,  and  held  the 
match  while  he  lighted  it ;  which,  between  men,  is  suffi- 
cient evidence  of   good   feeling.     He    understood,  and 
continued  :  "  Of  course   you'll   keep  your  eye  on  Mrs. 
Falchion  and  Madras  to-night,  if  he  is  determined  they 
shall  meet,  and  you  have  arranged  it.     I  should  like  to 
know  how  it  goes  before  you  turn  in,  if  you  don't  mind. 
And,   I  say,   Marmion,  ask    Miss  Treherne  to   keep    a 
dance  for  me — a  waltz — towards  the  close  of  the  even- 
ing, will  you  ?     Excuse  me,  but  she  is  the  thoroughbred 
of  the   ship.      And   if   I   have   only  one  hop   down  the 
promenade,  I  want  it  to  be  with  a  girl  who'll  remind  me 
of   some    one  that    is   making  West   Kensington   worth 
inhabiting.     Only  think,  Marmion,  of  a  girl  like  her,  a 
graduate  of  arts,  whose  name  and  pieture  have  been  in 
all  the  papers,  being  willing  to  take  up  with  me,  Dick 
Hungerford.     She  is  as  natural  and  simple  as  a  girl  can 
be,  and  doesn't  throw  Greek  roots  at  you,  nor  try  to 
convince  you  of  the  difference  between  the  songs  of  the 
Troubadours  and  the  sonnets  of  Petrarch.     She  doesn't 
care  a  rap  whether  Dante's  Beatrice  was  a  real  woman 
or  a  principle  ;  whether  James  I.  poisoned  his  son,  or 


MRS.    FALCHION.  83 

what's  the  margin  between  a  sine  and  a  co-sine.    She  can 

take  a  fence  in  the  hunting-field  like  a  bird oh,  all 

right,  just  hold  still,  and  I'll  unfasten  it."  He  strug- 
gled with  a  recalcitrant  buckle.  ..."  Well,  you'll 
not  forget  about  Miss  Treherne,  will  you  ?  She  ought 
to  go'  just  as  she  is.  Fancy-dress  on  her  would  be  gild- 
ing the  lily,  for  though  she  isn't  surpassingly  beautiful, 
she  is  very  fine  indeed.  There,  now  you're  yourself  again, 
and  look  all  the  better  for  it." 

By  this  time  I  was  again  in  my  uniform,  and  I  sat 
down  and  smoked  and  looked  at  Hungerford.  His  long 
gossip  had  been  more  or  less  detached,  and  I  had  said 
nothing.  I  understood  that  he  was  trying,  in  his  blunt 
honest  way,  to  turn  my  thoughts  definitely  from  Mrs. 
Falchion  to  Belle  Treherne  ;  and  he  never  seemed  to 
me  such  a  good  fellow  as  at  that  moment.  I  replied  at 
last :  "  All  right,  Hungerford,  I'll  be  your  deputation, 
your  ambassador,  to  Miss  Treherne.  What  time  shall 
we  see  you  on  deck  ?  " 

"About  11.40 — just  in  time  to  trip  a  waltz  on  the 
edge  of  eight  bells." 

"  On  the  edge  of  Sunday,  my  boy." 

"  Yes.  Do  you  know,  it's  just  four  years  to-morrow 
since  I  found  Boyd  Madras  on  the  No  Man's  Sea." 

"  Let  us  not  talk  of  it,"  said  I. 

"  All  right.  I  merely  stated  the  fact,  because  it  came 
to  me.  I'm  mum  henceforth.  .  .  .  And  I  want  to 
talk  about  something  else. — The  first  officer  :  I  don't 
know  whether  you've  noticed  him  lately,  but  I  tell 
you  this — if  we  ever  get  into  any  trouble  with  this  ship, 
he'll  go  to  pieces.  Why,  the  other  night  when  the 
engine  got  tangled  he  was  as  timid  as  a  woman.  That 
shock  he  had  with  the  coal,  as  I  said  before,  has  broken 
his  nerve,  big  man  as  he  is." 

"  Hungerford,"  I  said,  "  you  don't  generally  croak  ;  but 
you  are  earning  the  character  of  the  raven  for  yourself 


84  MRS.    FALCHION. 

to-night.  The  thing  is  growing  on  you.  What  is  the 
use  of  bringing  up  unpleasant  subjects  ?  You're  an  old 
woman." 

I  fear  there  was  the  slightest  irritation  in  my  voice, 
but  the  last  few  days'  experiences  had  left  their  mark  on 
me,  and  Hungerford's  manner  had  suddenly  grown  trying. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  me  from  under  his 
strong  brows  with  direct  earnestness,  and  then  he  stepped 
forward,  and  laying  his  hand  upon  my  arm,  rejoined  : 
"  Don't  be  raw,  Marmion.  I'm  only  a  blunt,  stupid 
sailor,  and  to  tell  you  God's  truth,  as  I've  told  you 
before,  every  sailor  is  superstitious — every  real  sailor. 
He  can't  help  it ;  I  can't  help  it.  I  have  a  special  fit  on 
me  now.  Why  don't  I  keep  it  to  myself  ?  Because  I'm 
selfish,  and  it  does  me  good  to  talk.  You  and  I  are  in 
one  secret  together,  and  it  makes  me  feel  like  sharing 
this  with  a  pal,  I  suppose." 

I  seized  his  hand,  and  begged  his  pardon,  and  called 
myself  unpleasant  names,  which  he  on  the  instant  stopped  ; 
and  he  said  :  "  That's  all  right,  Marmy  ;  shake  till  the 
knuckles  crack  !  .  .  .  I'm  off.  Don't  forget  the 
dance."     He  disappeared  down  the  passage. 

Then  I  went  on  deck,  and  the  scene  which  I  have  so 
imperfectly  described  passed  before  me.  Mrs.  Falchion 
was  surrounded  with  admirers  all  the  evening, — both  men 
and  women, — and  two  of  the  very  stately  English  ladies 
spoken  of  before,  were  particularly  gracious  to  her  ;  while 
she,  in  turn,  carried  herself  with  dignity.  I  danced  with 
her  once,  and  was  down  on  her  programme  for  another 
dance.  i  had  also  danced  with  Belle  Treherne,  who 
appeared  as  Miriam,  and  was  supervised  by  one  of  the 
ladies  of  title  ;  and  I  had  also  "  sat  out  "  one  dance 
with  her.  Chancing  to  pass  her  as  the  evening  wore  on, 
I  saw  her  in  conversation  with  Mrs.  Falchion,  who  had 
dismissed  her  cavalier,  preferring  to  talk,  she  said,  "  for 
dancing  was  tiresome  work  on  the  Indian  Ocean." 


MRS.    FALCHION.  85 

Belle  Treherne,  who,  up  to  that  moment,  had  never 
quite  liked  her,  yielded  to  the  agreeable  charm  of  her 
conversation  and  her  frank  applausive  remarks  upon 
the  costumes  of  the  dancers.  She  had  a  good  word  for 
every  one,  and  she  drew  her  companion  out  to  make  the 
most  of  herself,  as  women  less  often  do  before  women 
than  in  the  presence  of  men.  I  am  certain  that  her  in- 
terest in  Belle  Treherne  was  real,  and  likewise  certain 
that  she  cherished  no  pique  because  I  had  transferred  my 
allegiance.  Indeed,  I  am  sure  that  she  had  no  deep 
feeling  of  injured  pride  where  I  was  concerned.  Such 
after  acidity  as  she  sometimes  showed  was  directed 
against  the  foolish  part  I  had  played  with  her  and  my 
action  in  subsequent  events  ;  it  did  not  proceed  alone 
from  self-value. 

Sometime  after  this  meeting  I  saw  Boyd  Madras  issue 
from  the  companion-way,  dressed  as  a  Greek.  He  wore 
a  false  beard,  and  carried  off  well  his  garments  of  white 
and  scarlet  and  gold :  a  very  presentable  man.  He 
came  slowly  forward,  looking  about  him  steadily,  and, 
seeing  me,  moved  towards  me.  But  for  his  walk  I  should 
scarcely  have  recognized  him.  A  dance  was  beginning, 
but  many  eyes  were  turned  curiously  and  even  admiringly 
to  him,  for  he  looked  singular  and  impressive,  and  his 
face  was  given  fulness  by  a  beard  and  flesh  paints.  I 
motioned  him  aside  where  there  was  shadow,  and  said  : 
"  You  have  determined  to  see  her  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "  and  I  wish  you,  if  you  will,  to  intro- 
duce me  to  her  as  Mr.  Charles  Boyd." 

"  You  still  think  this  wise  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  is  my  earnest  wish.  I  must  have  an  understanding 
to-night."  He  spoke  very  firmly,  and  showed  no  excite- 
ment.    His  manner  was  calm  and  gentlemanly. 

He  had  a  surprising  air  of  decision.  Suppoiting  an 
antique  character,  he  seemed  for  the  moment  to  have  put 
on  also  something  of  antique  strength  of  mind,  and  to  be 


86  MRS.    FALCHION. 

no  longer  the  nervous  invalid.  "  Then,  come  with  me," 
I  answered. 

We  walked  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  see- 
ing where  Mrs.  Falchion  was,  we  advanced  to  her.  The 
next  dance  on  her  programme  was  mine.  In  my  pre- 
vious dance  with  her  we  had  talked  as  we  now  did  at  the 
table,  as  we  did  the  first  time  I  met  her, — impersonally, 
sometimes  (I  am  bold  to  say)  amusingly.  Now  I  ap- 
proached her  with  apologies  for  being  late.  The  man 
beside  her  took  his  leave.  She  had  only  just  glanced  at 
me  at  first,  but  now  she  looked  at  my  companion,  and 
the  look  stayed,  curious,  bewildered. 

"  It  is  fitting,"  I  said,  "  that  Greek  meet  Greek,  that 
Menelaus  should  be  introduced  to  Helen.  May  I  say 
that  when  Helen  is  not  Helen,  she  is  Mrs.  Falchion,  and 
when  Menelaus  is  not  Menelaus  he  is  Mr.  Charles 
Boyd  ? " 

I  am  afraid  my  voice  faltered  slightly,  because  there 
came  over  me  suddenly  a  nervousness  as  unexpected  as 
it  was  inconvenient  ;  and  my  words,  which  began  lightly, 
ended  huskily.  Had  Boyd  Madras  miscalculated  this 
woman  ? 

Her  eyes  were  afire,  and  her  face  was  as  pale  as 
marble  :  all  its  slight  but  healthy  glow  had  fled.  A  very 
faint  gasp  came  from  her  lips.  I  saw  that  she  recognized 
him  as  he  bowed  and  mentioned  her  name,  following  my 
introduction.  I  knew  not  what  might  occur,  for  I  saw 
danger  in  her  eyes,  in  reply  to  the  beseeching  look  in 
his.     Would  melodrama  supervene  after  all  ? 

She  merely  bowed  towards  me  as  if  to  dismiss  me  ; 
and  then  she  rose,  took  his  arm,  and  moved  away.  The 
interview  that  follows  came  to  me  from  Boyd  Madras 
afterwards. 

When  they  had  reached  the  semi-darkness  of  the  for- 
ward part  of  the  ship,  she  drew  her  hand  quickly  away, 
and  turning  to  him,  said  :  "What  is  the  name  by  which 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


87 


you  are  called  ?  One  does  not  always  hear  distinctly 
when  introduced." 

He  did  not  understand  what  she  was  about  to  do,  but 
he  felt  the  deadly  coldness  in  her  voice.  "  My  name  is 
known  to  you,"  he  replied.     He  steadied  himself. 

"  No,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  know  it,  for  I  do  not  know 
you.  ...  I  never  saw  you  before."  She  leaned  her 
hand  carelessly  on  the  bulwarks. 

He  was  shocked,  but  he  drew  himself  together.  Their 
eyes  were  intent  on  each  other.  "  You  do  know  me  ! 
Need  I  tell  you  that  I  am  Boyd  Madras  ? " 

"  Boyd  Madras  ?  "  she  said,  musing  coldly.  "  A  pecu- 
liar name." 

"  Mercy  Madras  was  your  name  until  you  called  your- 
self Mrs.  Falchion,"  he  urged  indignantly,  yet  prayer- 
fully too. 

"  It    suits    you     to     be    mysterious,    Mr. ah,    yes, 

Mr.  Boyd  Madras  ;  but,  really,  you  might  be  less  exact- 
ing in  your  demands  upon  one's  imagination."  Her  look 
was  again  on  him  casually. 

He  spoke  breathlessly.  "  Mercy,  Mercy,  for  God's 
sake  don't  speak  and  act  like  this !  Oh,  my  wife,  I  have 
wronged  you  every  way,  but  I  loved  you  always,  love 
you  now  !  I  have  only  followed  you  to  ask  you  to  forgive 
me — after  all  these  years.  I  saw  you  in  Colombo  just 
before  you  came  on  board,  and  I  felt  that  I  must  come 
also.  .  .  .  You  never  loved  me.  Perhaps  that  is 
better  for  you,  but  you  don't  know  what  I  suffer.  If  you 
could  give  me  a  chance  and  come  with  me  to  America — 
anywhere— and  let  me  start  the  world  again.  I  can 
be  a  good  man  now,  and  I  will  work  hard  too.  I 
will  " —  but  here  sudden  pain  brought  back  the  un- 
certainty of  his  life  and  its  possibilities.  He  leaned 
against  the  bulwarks,  and  made  a  helpless  despairing 
motion  with  his  hand.  "  No,  no,"  he  said,  and  added 
with  a  bitter  laugh,  "  not  to  begin  the  world  again,  but  to 


55  MRS.    FALCHION. 

end  it  as  profitably  and  as  silently  as  I  can.  .  .  . 
But  you  will  listen  to  me,  my  wife  ?  You  will  say,  at  least, 
that  you  forgive  the  blight  and  ill  I  brought  upon  you  ?" 

She  had  listened  to  him  unmoved  outwardly.  Her 
reply  was  instant.  "  You  are  more  melodramatic  than  I 
thought  you  capable  of  being — from  your  appearance," 
she  said  in  a  hard  tone.  "  Your  acting  is  very  good,  but 
not  convincing.  I  cannot  respond  as  would  become  the 
unity  and  sequence  of  the  play.  ...  I  have  no 
husband.  My  husband  is  dead.  I  buried  him  years  ago. 
.  .  .  I  have  forgotten  his  name.  ...  I  buried 
that  too." 

All  the  suffering  and  endured  scorn  of  years  came  to 
revolt  in  him.  He  leaned  forward  now  and  caught  her 
wrist.  "  Have  you  no  human  feeling  ?  "  he  said.  "  No 
heart  at  all  ?  Look  :  I  have  it  in  me  here,  suddenly, 
to  kill  you  as  you  stand.  You  have  turned  my  love 
to  hate.  From  your  smooth  skin  there,  I  could  tear 
those  rags,  and  call  upon  them  all  to  look  at  you — my 
wife,  a  felon's  wife  ;  mine  to  have  and  to  hold — to  hold, 
you  hear !  as  I  was  sworn  at  the  altar.  I  bare  my  heart 
to  you,  repenting,  and  you  mock  it,  torture  it,  with  your 
undying  hate  and  brutality.  You  have  no  heart,  no  life. 
This  white  bosom  is  all  of  you  ;  all  of  your  power  to 
make  men  love  you, — this,  and  your  beauty.  All  else,  by 
God,  is  cruel  as  the  grave  !  " 

His  voice  had  sunk  to  a  hoarse  whisper.  She  had  not 
sought  to  remove  his  hand,  nor  struggled  in  the  least  ; 
and  once  it  seemed  as  if  this  new  development  of  his 
character,  this  animal  fierceness,  would  conquer  her  : 
she  admired  courage.  But  it  was  not  so.  He  trembled 
with  weakness  before  he  had  finished  ;  he  stopped  too 
soon  ;  he  lost. 

"You  will  find  such  parts  exhausting  to  play,"  she 
murmured  as  he  let  her  arm  fall.  "  It  needs  a  strong 
physique    to    endure   exaggerated,   nervous    sentiment. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  89 

And  now,  please,  let  us  perform  less  trying  scenes." 
Then,  with  a  low,  cold  anger,  she  continued  :  "  Only 
a  coward  dogs  a  woman  who  finds  his  presence  insup- 
portable to  her.  This  woman  cannot,  if  she  would, 
make  the  man's  presence  bearable  ;  it  is  her  nature. 
Well,  why  rush  blindly  at  the  impossible  ?  She  wishes 
to  live  her  spoiled  life  alone.  The  man  can  have  no 
part  in  it.     But  she  has  money.     If  in  that  way " 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  protestingly,  the  fingers 
spread  in  excitement.  "  No  more — not  another  word  !  " 
he  said.  "  I  ask  for  forgiveness,  for  one  word  of  kind- 
ness, and  I  am  offered  money  !— to  eat  the  fire  that 
burned  me,  instead  of  bread.  ...  I  had  a  wife  once," 
he  added,  in  a  kind  of  troubled  dream,  looking  at  her 
as  if  she  was  very  far  away,  "  and  her  name  was  Mercy 
— her  name  was  Mercy — Mercy  Madras.  I  loved  her.  I 
sinned  for  her  sake.  A  message  came  that  she  was 
dead  to  me.  But  I  could  not  believe  that  it  was  so 
altogether,  for  I  had  knelt  at  her  feet,  and  worshipped 
her.  I  went  to  her,  but  she  sent  me  away  bitterly.  Years 
passed.  She  will  have  relented  now,  I  said  ;  and  I  fol- 
lowed her,  and  found  her,  as  I  thought.  But  it  was  not 
she,  it  was  a  wicked  ghost  in  her  beautiful  form — nothing 
more.  And  then  I  turned  away,  and  cursed  all  things, 
because  I  felt  that  I  should  never  see  my  wife  again. 
Mercy  Madras  was  dead.  .  .  .  Can't  you  hear  the 
curses  ?  " 

Still  she  was  unmoved.  She  said  with  a  cruel  impa- 
tience in  her  voice  :  "  Yes,  Mercy  Madras  is  dead.  How, 
then,  can  she  forgive  ?  What  could  her  ghost  (as  you 
call  her)  do,  but  offer  the  thing  which  her  husband 
(when  he  was  living)  loved  so  well  that  he  sold  himself 
into  bondage,  and  wrecked  his  world  and  hers  for  it  ? — 
Money.  Well,  money  is  at  his  disposal,  as  she  said  be- 
fore  " 

But  she  spoke  no  more.     The  man  in  him  shamed  her 


90  MRS.    FALCHION. 

into  silence  with  a  look.  She  bowed  her  head,  yet  not 
quite  in  shame,  for  there  was  that  in  her  eyes  which 
made  her  appear  as  if  his  suffering  was  a  gratuitous  inflic- 
tion. But,  at  this  moment,  he  was  stronger,  and  he  drew 
her  eyes  up  by  the  sheer  force  of  his  will.  "  I  need  no 
money  now,"  he  coldly  declared.  "  I  need  nothing  ;  not 
even  you  ;  and  can  you  fancy  that,  after  waiting  all 
these  years  for  this  hour,  money  would  satisfy  me  ?  Do 
you  know,"  he  continued  slowly  and  musingly,  "  I  can 
look  upon  you  now — yes,  at  this  moment,  with  more 
indifference  than  you  ever  showed  me  ?  A  moment  ago 
I  loved  you  ;  now  I  think  you  horrible,  because  you  are 
no  woman  ;  you  have  a  savage  heart.  And  some  day 
you  will  suffer  as  I  do,  so  terribly,  that  even  the  brazen 
Serpent  couldn't  cure  you.  Then  you  will  remember 
me." 

He  was  about  to  leave  her,  but  he  had  not  taken  two 
steps  before  he  turned  with  all  the  anger  and  the  passion 
softened  in  his  eyes,  and  said,  putting  his  hand  out 
towards  her,  yet  not  to  touch  her, — "  Good-by, — for  the 
last  time."  His  look  was  such  as  might  be  turned  upon 
a  forgiven  executioner. 

"  Good-night,"  she  replied,  and  she  did  not  look  into 
his  eyes,  but  out  to  sea.  Her  eyes  remained  fixed  upon 
its  indolent  gloom.  She  too  was  indolent  and  gloomy  at 
this  moment.  They  were  both  sleek,  silent,  and  remorse- 
less. Her  dress  rustled  slightly  as  she  changed  her  posi- 
tion. It  was  in  grim  keeping  to  the  pitiless  rustle  of 
the  sea. 

And  so  they  parted.  I  saw  him  move  towards  the 
companion-way,  and  though  I  felt  instinctively  that  all 
had  gone  ill  with  him,  I  was  surprised  to  see  how  erect 
he  walked.  After  a  minute  I  approached  her.  She 
heard  me  coming,  and  turned  to  me  with  a  curious  smile 
upon  her  face.  "Who  is  Mr.  Charles  Boyd  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  I  did  not  pierce  his  disguise.     I  couldn't  tell  whether  I 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


91 


had  met  him  on  board  before.  Have  I  ? — But  my  im- 
pression is  that  I  had  not  seen  him  on  the  ship." 

"  No,  you  had  not  seen  him,"  I  replied.  "  He  had  a 
fancy  to  travel,  until  yesterday,  with  the  second-class 
passengers.  Now  he  has  a  first-class  cabin — in  his  proper 
place,  in  fact." 

"  You  think  so — in  his  proper  place  ?  "  The  sugges- 
tion was  not  pleasant. 

"  Assuredly.    Why  do  you  speak  in  that  way  ?  " 

She  took  my  arm  as  we  moved  on.  "  Because  he  was 
slightly  rude  to  me." 

I  grew  bold,  and  determined  to  bring  her  to  some  sort 
of  reckoning. 

"  How  rude  were  you  to  him  ?  " 

"  Not  rude  at  all  ;  it  is  not  worth  while  being  so — to 
anybody,"  was  her  chilly  answer. 

"  I  was  under  the  impression  you  had  met  him  before," 
I  said  gravely. 

''Indeed!  And  why?"  She  raised  her  eyebrows  at 
me. 

I  pushed  the  matter  to  a  conclusion.  "  He  was  ill  the 
other  day — he  has  heart  trouble.  It  was  necessary  for 
me  to  open  the  clothes  about  his  neck.  On  his  breast  I 
saw  a  little  ivory  portrait  of  a  woman's  head." 

"  A  woman's  head,"  she  repeated  absently,  and  her 
fingers  idly  toyed  with  a  jingling  ornament  in  her  belt. 

In  an  idle  moment  I  had  sketched  the  head,  as  I 
remembered  it,  on  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  now  I  took  it 
from  my  pocket,  and  handed  it  to  her.  We  were  stand- 
ing near  a  porthole  of  the  music-saloon,  from  which 
light  streamed. 

"  That  is  the  head,"  said  I. 

She  deliberately  placed  the  paper  in  the  belt  of  light, 
and,  looking  at  it,  remarked  mechanically, — "  This  is  the 
head,  is  it  ?  "  She  showed  no  change  of  countenance, 
and  handed  it  back  to  me  as  if  she  had  seen  no  likeness. 


92  MRS.    FALCHION. 

"  It  is  very  interesting,"  she  said,  "but  one  would  think 
a  man  might  make  better  use  of  his  time  than  by  sur- 
reptitiously sketching  portraits  from  sick  men's  breasts. 
One  must  have  plenty  of  leisure  to  do  that  sort  of  thing, 
I  should  think.  Be  careful  that  you  do  not  get  into 
mischief,  Dr.  Marmion."  She  laughed.  "  Besides,  where 
was  the  special  peculiarity  in  that  portrait,  that  you  should 
treasure  it  in  pencil  so  conventionally  ?  Your  drawing  is 
not  good.     Where  was  the  point  or  need  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  right  to  reply  to  that  directly,"  I  responded. 
"  But  this  man's  life  is  not  for  always,  and  if  anything 
happened  to  him,  it  would  seem  curious  to  strangers  to 
find  that  on  his  breast  :  because,  of  course,  more  than  I 
would  see  it  there." 

"  If  anything  happened  ?  What  should  happen  ?  You 
mean,  on  board  ship  ?  "  There  was  a  little  nervousness 
in  her  tone  now. 

"  I  am  only  hinting  at  an  awkward  possibility,"  I 
replied. 

She  scrutinized  me  scornfully.  "  When  did  you  see 
that  picture  on  his  breast  ?  "  1  told  her.  "  Ah  !  before 
that  day  !  "  she  rejoined.  I  knew  that  she  referred  to  the 
evening  when  I  had  yielded  foolishly  to  the  fascination 
of  her  presence.     The  blood  swam  hotly  in  my  face. 

"  Men  are  not  noble  creatures,"  she  continued. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  would  not  give  many  their  patents 
of  nobility,  if  you  had  power  to  bestow  them,"  I 
answered. 

"  Most  men  at  the  beginning,  and  very  often  ever 
after,  are  ignoble  creatures.  Yet  I  should  confer  the 
patents  of  nobility,  if  it  were  my  prerogative  ;  for  some 
would  succeed  in  living  up  to  them.  Vanity  would 
accomplish  that  much.  Vanity  is  the  secret  of  noblesse 
oblige;  not  radical  virtue— since  we  are  beginning  to  be 
bookish  again." 

"  To  what  do  you  reduce  honor  and  right  ?  "  returned  I. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  93 

"  As  I  said  to  you  on  a  memorable  occasion,"  she  said 
very  dryly,  "to  a  code." 

"That  is,"  rejoined  I,  "a  man  does  a  good  action, 
lives  an  honorable  life  to  satisfy  a  social  canon,  to  grat- 
ify, say,  a  wife  or  mother,  who  believes  in  him  and  loves 
him  ? " 

"  Yes."  She  was  watching  Belle  Treherne  promenad- 
ing with  her  father.  She  drew  my  attention  to  it  by  a 
slight  motion  of  the  hand  ;  but  why  I  could  not  tell. 

"  But  might  not  a  man  fall  by  the  same  rule  of 
vanity?"  I  urged.  "That  he  shall  appear  well  in  their 
eyes,  that  their  vanity  in  turn  should  be  fed,  might  he  not 
commit  a  crime  and  so  bring  misery? " 

"  Yes,  it  is  true  either  way — pleasure  or  misery.  .  .  . 
Please  come  to  the  dining-room  and  get  me  an  ice  before 
the  next  dance." 

I  was  perplexed.  Was  she  altogether  soulless?  Even 
now,  as  we  passed  among  the  dancers,  she  replied  to 
congratulations  on  her  make-up  and  appearance  with 
evident  pleasure. 

An  hour  later  I  was  taking  Miss  Treherne  from  the 
arm  of  Hungerford  for  the  last  waltz,  and,  in  reply  to  an 
inquiring  glance  from  him,  I  shook  my  head  mournfully. 
His  face  showed  solicitude  as  he  walked  away.  Perhaps 
it  did  not  gratify  my  vanity  that  Miss  Treherne,  as  her 
father  limped  forward  at  the  stroke  of  eight  bells  to  take 
her  away,  said  to  me  :  "  How  downright  and  thorough 
Mr.  Hungerford  is  ! "  But  I  frankly  admitted  that  he 
was  all  she  might  say  good  of  him,  and  more. 

The  deck  was  quickly  dismantled,  the  lights  went  out, 
and  all  the  dancers  disappeared.  The  masquerade  was 
over  ;  and  again  through  the  darkness  rose  the  plaintive 
"All's  Well."  It  kept  ringing  in  my  ears  until  it  be- 
came a  mocking  sound,  from  which  I  longed  to  be  free. 
It  was  like  the  voice  of  Lear  crying  over  the  body  of 
Cordelia  :  "  Never,  never,  never,  never,  never." 


94  MRS.    FALCHION. 

Something  of  Hungerford's  superstitious  feeling  pos- 
sessed me.  I  went  below,  and  involuntarily  made  my 
way  to  Boyd  Madras's  cabin. 

Though  the  night  was  not  hot,  the  door  was  drawn  to. 
I  tapped.  His  voice  at  once  asked  who  was  there,  and 
when  I  told  him,  and  inquired  how  he  was,  he  said  he 
was  not  ill,  and  asked  me  to  come  to  his  cabin  in  the 
morning,  if  I  would.  I  promised,  and  bade  him  good- 
night. He  responded,  and  then  as  I  turned  away  from 
the  door,  I  heard  him  repeat  the  good-night  cordially  and 
calmly. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    WHEEL    COMES    FULL    CIRCLE. 

The  next  morning  I  was  up  early,  and  went  on  deck. 
The  sun  had  risen,  and  in  the  moist  atmosphere  the  tints 
of  sky  and  sea  were  beautiful.  Everywhere  was  the  warm 
ocean  undulating  lazily  to  the  vague  horizon.  A  few 
Lascars  were  still  cleansing  the  decks ;  others  were  seated 
on  their  haunches,  between  decks,  eating  curry  from  a  cala- 
bash ;  a  couple  of  passengers  were  indolently  munching 
oranges  ;  and  Stone,  the  quarter-master,  was  inspecting 
the  work  lately  done  by  the  Lascars.  Stone  gave  me  a 
pleasant  good-morning,  and  we  walked  together  the  length 
of  the  deck  forward.  I  had  got  about  three-fourths  of 
the  length  back  again,  when  I  heard  a  cry  from  aft— a 
sharp  call  of  "  Man  overboard  !  "  In  a  moment  I  had 
travelled  the  intermediate  deck,  and  was  at  the  stern,  look- 
ing below,  where,  in  the  swirling  waters,  was  the  head  of 
a  man.  With  cries  of  "  Man  overboard  !  "  I  threw  two  or 
three  buoys  after  the  disappearing  head,  above  which  a 
bare  arm  thrust  itself.  I  heard  the  rush  of  feet  behind 
me,  and,  in  a  moment,  Hungerford  and  Stone  were  beside 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


95 


me.  The  signal  was  given  for  the  engine  to  stop,  stew- 
ards and  Lascars  came  running  on  deck  in  response  to 
Hungerford's  call,  and  the  first  officer  now  appeared. 
Very  soon  a  crew  was  gathered  on  the  after-deck  about 
a  boat  on  the  port  side. 

Passengers,  by  this  time,  showed  in  various  stages  of 
dressing,  women  wringing  their  hands,  men  gesticulat- 
ing. If  there  is  anything  calculated  to  send  a  thrill  of 
awe  through  a  crowd,  it  is  the  cry  of  "  Man  overboard  !  " 
And  when  one  looked  and  saw,  above  the  drowning 
head,  two  white  arms  thrust  from  the  sea,  a  horrible 
thing  was  brought  home  to  each  of  us.  Besides,  the 
scene  before  us  on  the  deck  was  not  reassuring.  There 
was  trouble  in  getting  the  boat  lowered.  The  first 
officer  was  excited,  the  Lascars  were  dazed,  the  stewards 
were  hurried  without  being  confident ;  only  Hungerford, 
Stone,  and  the  gunner  collected.  The  boat  should  have 
been  launched  in  a  minute,  but  still  it  hung  between  its 
davits  ;  its  course  downward  was  interrupted  ;  something 

was  wrong  with  the   ropes.     "  A  false  start,  by !  " 

said  the  bookmaker,  looking  through  his  eye-glass. 
Colonel  Ryder's  face  was  stern,  Clovelly  was  pale  and 
anxious,  as  moment  after  moment  went,  and  the  boat  was 
not  yet  free.  Ages  seemed  to  pass  before  the  boat  was 
let  down  even  with  the  bulwarks,  and  a  crew  of  ten,  with 
Hungerford  in  command,  were  in  it,  ready  to  be  low- 
ered. Whether  the  word  was  given  to  lower,  or  whether 
it  was  any  one's  fault,  may  never,  perhaps,  be  known  ; 
but,  as  the  boat  hung  there,  suddenly  it  shot  down  at  the 
stern,  some  one  having  let  go  the  ropes  at  that  end,  and 
the  bow  being  still  fast,  the  boat  had  fallen  like  a  trap- 
door. It  seemed,  on  the  instant,  as  if  the  whole  crew 
were  tossed  into  the  water.  But  some  had  swiftly  caught 
hold  of  the  boat's  side,  and  Hungerford  hung  by  a  rope 
with  one  hand.  In  the  swirling  water  however,  about 
the  reversing  screw,  were  two  heads,  and  farther  off  was 


g6  MRS.    FALCHION. 


a  man  struggling.  The  face  of  one  of  the  men  near  the 
screw  was  upturned  for  a  moment.  It  was  that  of  Stone, 
the  quartermaster. 

A  cry  went  up  from  the  passengers,  and  they  swayed 
forward  to  the  suspended  boat,  but  Colonel  Ryder  turned 
almost  savagely  upon  them.  "  Keep  quiet,"  he  said. 
"  Stand  back.  What  can  you  do  ?  Give  the  officers  a 
chance."  He  knew  that  there  had  been  a  false  start  and 
bad  work,  indeed  ;  but  he  also  saw  that  the  task  of  the 
officers  must  not  be  made  harder.  His  sternness  had 
effect.  The  excited  passengers  drew  back,  and  I  took 
his  place  in  front  of  them.  When  the  effort  had  been 
made  to  lower  the  boat,  I  asked  the  first  officer  if  I 
could  accompany  the  crew,  but  he  said  No.  I  could, 
therefore,  do  nothing  but  wait.  A  change  came  on  the 
crowd.  It  became  painfully  silent,  none  speaking,  save 
in  whispers  ;  and  all  watching,  with  anxious  faces,  either 
the  receding  heads  in  the  water  or  the  unfortunate  boat's 
crew.  Hungerford  showed  himself  a  thorough  sailor. 
Hanging  to  the  davit,  he  quietly,  reassuringly,  gave  the 
order  for  righting  the  boat,  virtually  taking  the  command 
out  of  the  hands  of  the  first  officer,  who  was  trembling 
with  nervousness.  Hungerford  was  right ;  the  man's 
days  as  a  sailor  were  over.  But  Hungerford  was  as  cool 
as  if  this  were  ordinary  boat-practice.  Soon  the  boat 
was  drawn  up  again,  and  others  took  the  place  of  those 
who  had  disappeared.  Then  it  was  lowered  safely,  and, 
with  Hungerford  erect  in  the  bow,  it  was  pulled  swiftly 
along  the  path  we  had  come. 

At  length,  too,  the  great  ship  turned  round,  but  not 
in  her  tracks.  It  is  a  pleasant  fiction  that  these  great 
steamers  are  easily  managed.  They  can  go  straight 
ahead,  but  their  huge  proportions  are  not  adapted  for 
rapid  movement.  However,  the  work  of  rescue  was 
begun.  Sailors  were  aloft  on  watch.  Captain  Ascott 
was  on  the  bridge,  sweeping  the  sea  with  his  glass  ;  order 


MRS.    FALCHION.  97 

was  restored.  But  the  ship  had  the  feeling  of  a  home 
from  which  some  familiar  inmate  had  been  taken,  to 
return  no  more.  Children  clasped  their  mothers'  hands, 
and  said  :  "  Mother,  was  it  Stone,  the  quartermaster  ?  " 
And  men  who,  the  day  before,  had  got  help  from  the 
petty  officers  in  the  preparation  of  costumes,  said  mourn- 
fully:  "  Poor  Fife,  the  gunner,  was  one  of  them." 

But  who  was  the  man  first  to  go  overboard  ?  And 
who  was  it  first  gave  the  alarm  ?  There  were  rumors, 
but  no  one  was  sure.  All  at  once  I  remembered  some- 
thing peculiar  in  that  cry  of  "  Man  overboard  ! "  and 
it  shocked  me.  I  hurried  below  and  went  to  the  cabin  of 
Boyd  Madras.  It  was  empty,  but  on  a  shelf  lay  a  large 
envelope  addressed  to  Hungerford  and  myself.  I  tore 
it  open.  There  was  a  small  packet,  which  I  knew  con- 
tained the  portrait  he  had  worn  on  his  bosom,  addressed 
to  Mrs.  Falchion,  and  the  other  was  a  single  sheet 
directed  to  me,  fully  written  upon,  and  marked  in  the 
corner  :   "  To  be  made  public." 

So,  he  had  disappeared  from  the  play?  He  had  made 
his  exit?    He  had  satisfied  the  code  at  last? 

Before  opening  the  letter  addressed  to  me,  I  looked 
round.  His  clothes  were  folded  upon  one  of  the  berths  ; 
but  the  garments  of  masquerade  were  not  in  the  cabin. 
Had  he,  then,  gone  out  of  the  world  in  the  garb  of  a 
mummer  ?  Not  altogether,  for  the  false  beard  he  had 
worn  the  night  before  lay  beside  the  clothes.  But  this 
terrible  earnestness  of  his  would  look  strange  in  last 
night's  disguise. 

I  opened  the  packet  addressed  to  Hungerford  and 
myself,  and  saw  that  it  contained  a  full  and  explicit 
account  of  the  last  meeting  with  his  wife.  The  per- 
sonal letter  was  short.  He  said  that  his  gratitude  was 
unspeakable.  He  begged  us  not  to  let  the  world  know 
who  he  was,  nor  his  relationship  to  Mrs.  Falchion,  unless 
she  wished  it  ;  and  asked  me  to  hand  privately  to  her  the 


93  MRS.    FALCHION. 

packet  bearing  her  name.  Lastly,  he  requested  that  the 
paper  for  the  public  be  given  to  the  captain  of  the  fiulvia. 
Going  out  into  the  passage  I  found  a  steward,  who 
hurriedly  told  me  that  just  before  the  alarm  was  given,  he 
had  seen  Boyd  going  out  of  his  cabin  in  that  strange  cos- 
tume, and  he  had  come  to  see  if,  by  any  chance,  it  was 
he  who  had  gone  overboard.  I  told  him  that  it  was. 
He  disappeared,  and  soon  the  whole  ship  knew  it.  I 
went  to  the  captain,  gave  him  the  letter,  and  told  him 
only  what  was  necessary  to  tell.  He  was  on  the  bridge, 
and  was  occupied  with  giving  directions;  so  he  asked 
me  the  substance  of  the  letter,  and  handed  it  back  to 
me,  requesting  me  to  make  a  copy  of  it  soon,  and  leave  it 
in  his  cabin.  I  then  took  all  the  papers  to  my  cabin,  and 
locked  them  up.  I  give  here  the  substance  of  the  letter 
which  was  to  be  made  public  :  — 

"  Because  you  know  how  much  I  have  suffered  physically  while  on 
board  this  ship,  and  because  you  have  been  kind  to  me,  I  wish, 
through  you,  to  say  my  last  word  to  the  world  :  though,  indeed,  this 
may  seem  a  strange  form  for  gratitude  to  take.  Dying  men,  how- 
ever, make  few  apologies,  and  I  shall  make  none.  My  existence,  as 
you  know,  is  an  uncertain  quantity,  and  may  be  cut  short  at  any 
moment  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things.  But  I  have  no  future  in 
the  active  concerns  of  life  ;  no  past  on  which  to  dwell  with  satis- 
faction ;  no  friends  to  mourn  for  my  misfortunes  in  life,  nor  for  my 
death,  whether  it  be  peaceful  or  violent :  therefore,  I  have  fewer 
compunctions  in  ending  a  mistaken  career  and  a  worthless  life. 

"  Some  one  will  profit  by  my  death  :  who  it  is  matters  not,  for  it 
is  no  friend  of  mine.  My  death  adjusts  a  balance,  perhaps  not 
nicely,  yet  it  does  it.  And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say.  .  .  .  lam 
going.     Farewell.      .     .     ." 

After  a  brief  farewell  to  me  added,  there  came  the 
subscription,  "  Charles  Boyd  ;  "  and  that  was  all.  Why 
he  cried  out,  "  Man  overboard  "  (for  now  I  recognized  that 
it  was  his  voice  which  gave  the  alarm),  I  do  not  know, 
except  that  he  wished  his  body  to  be  recovered  and  to 
receive  burial. 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


99 


Just  here,  someone  came  fumbling  at  the  curtain 
of  my  cabin. — I  heard  a  gasp — "  Doctor — my  head  ! 
Quick  !  " 

I  looked  out.  As  I  drew  the  curtain  a  worthless  Lascar 
sailor  fell  fainting  into  my  cabin.  He  had  been  drink- 
ing a  good  deal,  and  the  horror  and  excitement  of  the 
accident  had  brought  on  an  apoplectic  fit.  This  in  a  very 
hot  climate  is  suddenly  fatal.  In  three  minutes,  in  spite 
of  me,  he  was  dead.  Postponing  report  of  the  matter,  I 
went  on  deck  again  among  the  passengers. 

I  expected  that  Mrs.  Falchion  would  be  among  them, 
for  the  news  must  have  gone  to  every  part  of  the  ship  ; 
but  she  was  not  there.  On  the  outskirts  of  one  of  the 
groups,  however,  I  saw  Justine  Caron.  I  went  to  her,  and 
asked  her  if  Mrs.  Falchion  had  risen.  She  said  that  she 
had  not :  that  she  had  been  told  of  the  disaster,  and  had 
appeared  shocked  ;  but  had  complained  of  a  headache, 
and  had  not  risen.  I  then  asked  Justine  if  Mrs.  Falchion 
had  been  told  who  the  suicide  was,  and  was  answered  in 
the  negative.  At  that  moment  a  lady  came  to  me  and 
said  in  an  awed  whisper  :  "  Dr.  Marmion,  is  it  true  that 
the  man  who  committed  suicide  was  a  second-class  pas- 
senger, and  that  he  appeared  at  the  ball  last  night  and 
danced  with  Mrs.  Falchion  ?  " 

I  knew  that  my  reply  would  soon  become  common 
property,  so  I  said  : 

"  He  was  a  first-class  passenger,  though  until  yesterday 
he  travelled  second-class.  I  knew  him.  His  name  was 
Charles  Boyd.  I  introduced  him  to  Mrs.  Falchion  last 
night,  but  he  did  not  stay  long  on  deck  because  he  felt 
ill.  He  had  heart-trouble.  You  may  guess  that  he  was 
tired  of  life."  Then  I  told  her  of  the  paper  which  was 
for  the  public,  and  she  left  me. 

The  search  for  the  unfortunate  men  went  on.  No 
one  could  be  seen  near  the  floating  buoys,  which  were 
here  and  there  picked  up  by  Hungerford's  boat.     The 


IOO  MRS.    FALCHION. 

long  undulations  of  the  water  had  been  broken  up  in 
a  large  area  about  the  ship,  but  the  sea  was  still  com- 
paratively smooth.  We  were  steaming  back  along  the 
track  we  had  come.  There  was  less  excitement  on 
board  than  might  be  expected.  The  tropical  stillness 
of  the  air,  the  quiet  suddenness  of  the  tragedy  itself,  the 
grim  decisiveness  of  Hungerford,  the  watchful  silence  of 
a  few  men  like  Colonel  Ryder  and  Clovelly,  had  effect 
upon  even  the  emotion  of  those  women,  everywhere 
found,  who  get  a  morbid  joy  out  of  misery. 

Nearly  all  were  watching  the  rescue-boat,  though  a 
few  looked  over  the  sides  of  the  ship,  as  if  they  expected 
to  find  bodies  floating  about.  They  saw  sharks  instead, 
and  a  trail  of  blood,  and  this  sent  them  away  sickened  from 
the  bulwarks.  Then  they  turned  their  attention  again 
upon  the  rescue  party.  It  was  impossible  not  to  note 
what  a  fine  figure  Hungerford  made,  as  he  stood  erect 
in  the  bow,  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  searching  the  water. 
Presently  we  saw  him  stop  the  boat,  and  something  was 
drawn  in.  He  signalled  the  ship.  He  had  found  one 
man — but  dead  or  alive  ?  The  boat  was  rapidly  rowed 
back  to  the  ship,  Hungerford  making  efforts  for  resus- 
citation. Arrived  at  the  vessel,  the  body  was  passed  up 
to  me. 

It  was  that  of  Stone,  the  quartermaster.  I  worked  to 
bring  back  life,  but  it  was  of  no  avail.  A  few  minutes 
after,  a  man  in  the  yards  signalled  that  he  saw  another. 
It  was  not  a  hundred  yards  away,  and  was  floating 
near  the  surface.  It  was  a  strange  sight,  for  the  water 
was  a  vivid  green,  and  the  man  wore  garments  of 
white  and  scarlet,  and  looked  a  part  of  some  strange 
mosaic  :  as  one  has  seen  astonishing  figures  set  in  balls 
of  solid  glass.  This  figure  framed  in  the  sea  was  Boyd 
Madras.  The  boat  was  signalled,  it  drew  near,  and  two 
men  dragged  the  body  in,  as  a  shark  darted  forward,  just 
too  late,  to  seize  it.     The  boat  drew  alongside  the  Ful- 


MRS.    FALCHiOfc.  IOI 

via.  I  stood  at  the  gangway/„o  recede  this  castaway.  I 
felt  his  wrist  and  heart.  As  I  did  so  I  chanced  to 
glance  up  at  the  passengers,  who  were  looking  at  this 
painful  scene  from  the  upper  deck.  There,  leaning  over 
the  railing,  stood  Mrs.  Falchion,  her  eyes  fixed  with  a 
shocking  wonder  at  the  drooping  weird  figure.  Her  lips 
parted,  but  at  first  they  made  no  sound.  Then,  she 
suddenly  drew  herself  up  with  a  shudder.  "  Horrible  ! 
horrible !  "  she  said,  and  turned  away. 

I  had  Boyd  Madras  taken  to  an  empty  cabin  next  to 
mine,  which  I  used  for  operations,  and  there  Hungerford 
and  myself  worked  to  resuscitate  him.  We  allowed  no 
one  to  come  near.  I  had  not  much  hope  of  bringing  life 
back,  but  still  we  worked  with  a  kind  of  desperation,  for 
it  seemed  to  Hungerford  and  myself  that  somehow  we 
were  responsible  to  humanity  for  him.  His  heart  had 
been  weak,  but  there  had  been  no  organic  trouble  :  only 
some  functional  disorder,  which  care,  open-air  life,  and 
freedom  from  anxiety  could  overcome.  Hungerford 
worked  with  an  almost  fierce  persistence.     Once  he  said  : 

"  By ,  I  will  bring  him  back,  Marmion,  to  face  that 

woman  down  when  she  thinks  she's  got  the  world  on  the 
hip  !  " 

I  cannot  tell  what  delight  we  felt,  when  after  a  little 
time,  I  saw  a  quiver  of  the  eyelids  and  a  slight  motion  of 
the  chest.  Presently  a  longer  breath  came  and  the  eyes 
opened  ;  at  first  without  recognition.  Then,  in  a  few 
moments,  I  knew  that  he  was  safe — desperately  against 
his  will,  but  safe. 

His  first  sentient  words  startled  me.  He  gasped, 
"  Did  you  give  her  my  paper  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Then,  she  must  still  think  me  dead  ! " 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  " — Here  he  spoke  faintly  as  if  sudden  fear 
had    produced    additional    weakness — "  Because    I    had 


102  AIRS.    FALCHION. 

rather  die  a  thousand  deaths  than  meet  her  again  ; 
because  she  hates  me.  I  must  begin  the  world  again. 
You  have  saved  my  life  against  my  will  :  I  demand  that 
you  give  that  life  its  only  chance  of  happiness  !  " 

As  his  words  came  to  me,  I  remembered  with  a  start 
the  dead  Lascar,  and,  leading  Hungerford  to  my  cabin,  I 
pointed  to  the  body  and  whispered  that  the  sailor's  death 
was  only  known  to  me.  "  Then  this  is  the  corpse  of 
Boyd  Madras,  and  we'll  bury  it  for  him,"  he  said  with 
quick  bluntness.  "  Don't  you  report  this  death  to  Cap- 
tain Ascott — he  would  only  raise  objections  to  the  idea. 
This  Lascar  was  in  my  watch.  It'll  be  supposed  he  fell 
overboard  during  the  accident  to  the  boat.  Perhaps  some 
day  the  funeral  of  this  nigger  will  be  a  sensation  and  sur- 
prise to  her  blessed  ladyship  on  deck." 

I  suggested  that  it  seemed  underhand  and  unprofes- 
sional, but  the  entreating  words  of  the  resuscitated  man 
in  the  next  room  conquered  my  objections. 

It  was  arranged  that  Madras  should  remain  in  the 
present  cabin,  of  which  I  -had  a  key,  until  Ave  reached 
Aden  ;  then  he  should,  by  Hungerford's  aid,  disappear. 

We  were  conspirators,  but  we  meant  harm  to  nobody. 
I  covered  up  the  face  of  the  dead  Lascar  and  wrapped 
round  him  the  scarlet  and  gold  cloth  that  Madras  had 
worn.  Then  I  got  a  sailor,  who  supposed  Boyd  Madras 
was  before  him,  and  the  body  was  soon  sewed  in  its 
shotted  shroud  and  carried  to  where  Stone  the  quarter- 
master lay. 

At  this  day  I  do  not  suppose  I  would  do  these  things, 
but  then  it  seemed  right  to  do  as  Boyd  Madras  wished  : 
he  was,  under  a  new  name,  to  begin  the  world  again. 

After  giving  directions  for  the  disposition  of  the  bodies, 
I  went  on  deck.  Mrs.  Falchion  was  still  there.  Some 
one  said  to  her,— "  Did  you  know  the  man  who  committed 
suicide  ?  " 

"  He  was  introduced  to  me  last  night  by  Dr.  Mar- 


MRS.    FALCHION.  103 

mion,"  she  replied,  and  she  shuddered  again,  though  her 
face  showed  no  remarkable  emotion.  She  had  had  a 
shock  to  the  senses,  not  to  the  heart. 

When  I  came  to  her  on  the  deck,  Justine  was  saying 
to  her :  "  Madame,  you  should  not  have  come.  You 
should  not  see  such  painful  things  when  you  are  not 
well." 

She  did  not  reply  to  this.  She  looked  up  at  me  and 
said  :  "  A  strange  whim  to  die  in  those  fanciful  rags.  It 
is  dreadful  to  see  ;  but  he  had  the  courage." 

I  replied  :  "  They  have  as  much  courage,  who  make 
men  do  such  things  and  then  live  on." 

Then  I  told  her  briefly  that  I  held  the  packet  for  her, 
that  I  guessed  what  was  in  it,  and  that  I  would  hand  it 
to  her  later.  I  also  said  that  he  had  written  to  me  the 
record  of  last  night's  meeting  with  her,  and  that  he  had 
left  a  letter  which  was  to  be  made  public.  As  I  said 
these  things,  we  were  walking  the  decks,  and,  because 
eyes  were  on  both  of  us,  I  tried  to  show  nothing  more 
unusual  in  manner  than  the  bare  tragedy  might  account 
for. 

"Well,"  she  said  with  a  curious  coldness,  "what  use 
shall  you  make  of  your  special  knowledge  ?  " 

"I  intend,"  I  said,  "to  respect  his  wish,  that  your  rela- 
tionship to  him  be  kept  unknown,  unless  you  declare 
otherwise." 

"  That  is  reasonable.  If  he  had  always  been  as  reason- 
able ! — and  you  also."  I  knew  that  she  was  again  refer- 
ring to  the  night  when  I  made  love  to  her.  "  And,"  she 
continued,  "  I  do  not  wish  the  relationship  to  be  known  : 
practically  there  is  none.  .  .  .  Oh  !  Oh  !  "  she  added 
with  a  sudden  change  in  her  voice,  "  why  did  he  do  such  a 
thing,  and  make  everything  else  impossible  ? — impossible  ! 
Send  me,  or  give  me,  the  packet  when  you  wish  : 
and  now  please  leave  me,  Dr.  Marmion." 

The  last  few  words  were  spoken  with  some  apparent 


104  MRS.    FALCHION. 

feeling,  but  I  knew  she  was  thinking  of  herself  most,  and 
I  went  from  her  angry. 

I  did  not  see  her  again  before  the  hour  that  afternoon, 
when  we  should  give  the  bodies  of  the  two  men  to  the 
ocean.  No  shroud  could  be  prepared  for  gunner  Fife 
and  able-seaman  Winter,  whose  bodies  had  no  Chris- 
tian burial,  but  were  swallowed  by  the  eager  sea,  not 
to  be  yielded  up  even  for  a  few  hours.  We  were 
now  steaming  far  beyond  the  place  where  they  v/ere 
lost. 

The  burial  was  an  impressive  sight,  as  burials  at  sea 
mostly  are.  The  lonely  waters  stretching  to  the  horizon 
helped  to  make  it  so.  There  was  a  melancholy  majesty 
in  the  ceremony. 

The  clanging  bell  had  stopped.  Captain  Ascott  was  in 
his  place  at  the  head  of  the  rude  draped  bier.  In  the 
silence  one  only  heard  the  swish  of  water  against  the 
Fulvias  side,  as  we  sped  on  towards  Aden.  People  do 
not  know  how  beautiful,  how  powerful,  is  the  burial  ser- 
vice in  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer,  who  have  only  heard 
it  recited  by  a  clergyman.  To  hear  it  read  by  a  hardy 
man,  whose  life  is  among  stern  duties,  is  to  receive  anew 
impression.  He  knows  nothing  of  lethargic  monotone  ; 
he  interprets  as  he  reads.  And  when  the  man  is  the 
homespun  captain  of  a  ship,  who  sees  before  him  the  poor 
shell  of  a  man  that  served  him  for  ten  years, — u  The  Lord 
gave  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away;  Blessed  be  the  name  of 
the  Lord,"  has  a  strange  significance.  It  is  only  men  who 
have  borne  the  shock  of  toil  and  danger,  and  have  beaten 
up  against  the  world's  buffetings,  that  are  fit  to  say  last 
words  over  those  gone  down  in  the  storm  or  translated 
in  the  fiery  chariot  of  duty. 

Captain  Ascott's  fingers  trembled,  and  he  paused  for  an 
instant  and  looked  down  upon  the  dead,  then  out  sorrow- 
fully to  the  waiting  sea,  before  he  spoke  the  words,  "  We 
therefore  commit  their  bodies  to  the  deep."    But,  the  moment 


MRS.    FALCHION.  I05 

they  were  uttered,  the  bier  was  lifted,  there  was  a  swift 
plunge,  and  only  the  flag  and  the  empty  boards  were  left. 
The  sobbing  of  women  now  seemed  almost  unnatural,  for, 
around  us  was  the  bright  sunlight,  the  gay  dresses  of  the 
Lascars,  the  sound  of  the  bell  striking  the  hours,  and 
children  playing  on  the  deck. 

And  Mrs.  Falchion?  As  the  burial  service  was  read 
she  had  stood,  and  looked,  not  at  the  bier,  but  straight 
out  to  sea,  calm  and  apparently  unsympathetic,  though, 
as  she  thought,  her  husband  was  being  buried.  When, 
however,  the  weighted  body  divided  the  water  with  a 
swingeing  sound,  her  face  suddenly  suffused,  as  though 
shame  had  touched  her,  or  some  humiliating  idea  had 
come.  But  she  turned  to  Justine  almost  immediately, 
and  soon  after  said  calmly  :  "  Bring  a  play  of  Moliere 
and  read  to  me,  Justine." 

I  had  the  packet  her  supposed  dead  husband  had 
left  for  her  in  my  pocket.  I  joined  her,  and  we  paced 
the  deck,  at  first  scarcely  speaking,  while  the  pas- 
sengers dispersed,  some  below,  some  to  the  smoking- 
rooms,  some  upon  deck-chairs  to  doze  through  the  rest  of 
the  lazy  afternoon.  The  world  had  taken  up  its  orderly 
course  again.  At  last,  in  an  unfrequented  corner  of  the 
deck,  I  took  the  packet  from  my  pocket  and  handed  it  to 
her.     "  You  understand  ?  "  I  said. 

"Yes,  I  understand.  And  now  may  I  beg  that  for  the 
rest  of  your  natural  life  " — here  she  paused,  and  bit  her 
lip  in  vexation  that  the  unlucky  phrase  had  escaped  her, — 
"you  will  speak  of  this  no  more  ? " 

"  Mrs.  Boyd  Madras,  "  I  said  (here  she  colored  indig- 
nantly),— "  pardon  me  for  using  the  name  ;  but  it  is  only 
this  once, — I  shall  never  speak  of  this  to  you  again,  nor 
to  any  one  else,  unless  there  is  grave  reason." 

We  walked  again  in  silence.  Passing  the  captain's 
cabin,  we  saw  a  number  of  gentlemen  gathered  about  the 
door,  while  others  were  inside.     We  paused,  to  find  what 


106  MRS.    FALCHION. 

the  incident  was.  Captain  Ascott  was  reading  the  letter 
which  Boyd  Madras  had  wished  to  be  made  public.  (I 
had  given  it  to  him  just  before  the  burial,  and  he  was 
acting  as  if  Boyd  Madras  was  really  dead — he  was  quite 
ignorant  of  our  conspiracy.)  I  was  about  to  move  on, 
but  Mrs.  Falchion  touched  my  arm.  "  Wait,"  she  said. 
She  stood  and  heard  the  letter  through.  Then  we  walked 
on,  she  musing.  Presently  she  said  :  "  It  is  a  pity — a 
pity." 

I  looked  at  her  inquiringly,  but  she  offered  no  expla- 
nation of  the  enigmatical  words.  But,  at  this  moment, 
seeing  Justine  waiting,  she  excused  herself,  and  soon  I 
saw  her  listening  to  Moliere.  Later  in  the  day  I  saw 
her  talking  with  Belle  Treherne,  and  it  struck  me  that 
she  had  never  looked  so  beautiful  as  then,  and  that  Belle 
Treherne  had  never  seemed  so  perfect  a  product  of  a  fine 
convention.  But,  watching  them  together,  one  who  had 
had  any  standard  of  good  life  could  never  have  hesitated 
between  the  two.  It  was  plain  to  me  that  Mrs.  Falchion 
was  bent  upon  making  a  conquest  of  this  girl  who  so 
delicately  withstood  her,  and  Belle  Treherne  has  told  me 
since,  that,  when  in  her  presence,  and  listening  to  her, 
she  was  irresistibly  drawn  to  her  ;  though  at  the  same 
time  she  saw  there  was  some  significant  lack  in  her 
nature  ;  some  hardness  impossible  to  anyone  who  had  ever 
known  love.  She  also  told  me  that,  on  this  occasion, 
Mrs.  Falchion  did  not  mention  my  name,  nor  did  she  ever 
in  their  acquaintance,  save  in  the  most  casual  fashion. 
Her  conversation  with  Belle  Treherne  was  always  far  from 
petty  gossip  or  that  smart  comedy  in  which  women  tell  so 
much  personal  history,  with  the  guise  of  badinage  and 
bright  cynicism.  I  confess,  though,  it  struck  me  unpleas- 
antly at  the  time,  that  this  fresh,  high-hearted  creature 
should  be  in  familiar  conversation  with  a  woman  who,  it 
seemed  to  me,  was  the  incarnation  of  cruelty. 

Mrs.  Falchion  subscribed  most  liberally  to  the  fund 


MRS.    FALCHION.  I07 

raised  for  the  children  of  the  quartermaster,  and  munifi- 
cently to  that  for  the  crew  which  had,  under  Hungerford, 
performed  the  rescue  work,  The  only  effect  of  this 
was  to  deepen  the  belief  that  she  was  very  wealthy,  and 
could  spend  her  money  without  affectation  ;  for  it  was 
noticeable  that  she  of  all  on  board  showed  the  least  out- 
ward excitement  at  the  time  of  the  disaster.  It  occurred 
to  me  that  once  or  twice  I  had  seen  her  eyes  fixed  on 
Hungerford  inquisitively,  and  not  free  from  antipathy. 
It  was  something  behind  her  usual  equanimity.  Her  intu- 
itive observation  had  led  her  to  trace  his  hand  in  recent 
events.  Yet  I  know  she  admired  him  too  for  his  brave 
conduct.  The  day  following  the  tragedy  we  were  seated 
at  dinner.  The  captain  and  most  of  the  officers  had  risen, 
but  Mrs.  Falchion,  having  come  in  late,  was  still  eating, 
and  I  remained  seated  also.  Hungerford  approached 
me,  apologizing  for  the  interruption,  remarking  that  he 
was  going  on  the  bridge  and  wished  to  say  something 
to  me  before  he  went.  It  was  an  official  matter  to  which 
Mrs.  Falchion  apparently  did  not  listen.  When  he  was 
about  to  turn  away,  he  bowed  to  her  rather  distantly,  but 
she  looked  up  at  him  and  said  with  an  equivocal  smile  : 

"  Mr.  Hungerford,  we  often  respect  brave  men  whom 
we  do  not  like." 

And  he,  understanding  her,  but  refusing  to  recognize 
the  compliment,  not  altogether  churlishly  replied  :  "  And 
I  might  say  the  same  of  women,  Mrs.  Falchion  ;  but  there 
are  many  women  we  dislike  who  are  not  brave." 

"  I  think  I  could  recognize  a  brave  man  without  seeing 
his  bravery,"  she  urged. 

"  But  I  am  a  blundering  sailor,"  he  rejoined,  "who 
only  believes  his  eyes." 

"  You  are  young  yet,"  she  replied. 

"  I  shall  be  older  to-morrow,"  was  his  retort. 

"Well,  perhaps  you  will  see  better  to-morrow,"  she 
rejoined  with  indolent  irony. 


108  MRS.    FALCHION. 

"  If  I  do,  I'll  acknowledge  it,"  he  added. 
Then  Hungerford  smiled  at  me  inscrutably. 
We  two  held  a  strange  secret. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

A    BRIDGE    OF    PERIL. 

No  more  delightful  experience  may  be  had  than  to 
wake  up  in  the  harbor  of  Aden  some  fine  morning, — it 
is  always  fine  there, — and  feel  the  first  impression  of 
that  mighty  fortress  with  its  thousand  iron  eyes,  in  strong 
repose  by  the  Arabian  Sea. 

Overhead  was  the  cloudless  sun,  and  everywhere  the 
tremulous  glare  of  a  sandy  shore  and  the  creamy  wash 
of  the  sea,  like  fusing  opals.  A  tiny  Mohammedan 
mosque  stood  gracefully  where  the  ocean  almost  washed 
its  steps,  and  the  Resident's  house,  far  up  the  hard  hill- 
side, looked  down  upon  the  harbor  from  a  green  cool- 
ness.    The  place  had  a  massive  warlike  character. 

Here  was  a  battery  and  earth-works  ;  there,  a  fort ; 
beyond,  a  signal-staff.  Hospitals,  hotels,  and  stores  were 
incidents  in  the  picture.  Beyond  the  mountain-wall  and 
lofty  Jebel  Shamsan,  rising  in  fine  pink  and  bronze, 
and  at  the  end  of  a  high-walled  path  between  the 
great  hills,  lay  the  town  of  Aden  proper.  Above  the 
town  again  were  the  mighty  Tanks,  made  out  of  clefts 
in  the  mountains,  and  built  in  the  times  when  the  Phoe- 
nicians made  Aden  a  great  mart,  the  richest  spot  in  all 
Arabia. 

Over  to  the  left,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  harbor, 
were  great  bungalows  shining  in  the  sun  ;  and  flanking 
the  side  of  the  ancient  aqueduct,  the  gigantic  tomb  of  an 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


tog 


Arab  sheikh.  In  the  harbor  were  the  men-of-war  of  all 
nations,  and  Arab  dhows  sailed  slowly  in,  laden  with 
pilgrims  for  Mecca — masses  of  picturesque  sloth  and 
dirt — and  disease,  also  ;  for,  more  than  one  vessel  flew 
the  yellow  flag.  As  we  looked,  a  British  man-of-war 
entered  the  gates  of  the  harbor  in  the  rosy  light.  It 
was  bringing  back  the  disabled  and  wounded  from  a 
battle,  where  a  handful  of  British  soldiers  were  sent  to 
punish  thirty  times  their  number  in  an  unknown  country. 
But  there  was  another  man-of-war  in  port  familiar  to  us. 
We  passed  it  far  out  on  the  Indian  Ocean.  It  again 
passed  us,  and  reached  Aden  before  we  did.  The  Por- 
cupine lay  not  far  from  the  Fulvia;  and,  as  I  leaned 
over  the  bulwarks  idly  looking  at  her,  a  boat  shot  away 
from  her  side,  and  came  towards  us.  As  it  drew  near 
I  saw  that  it  was  filled  with  luggage — a  naval  officer's  I 
knew  it  to  be.  As  the  sailors  hauled  it  up,  I  noticed 
that  the  initials  upon  the  portmanteaus  were  G.  R.  The 
owner  was  evidently  an  officer  going  home  on  leave,  or 
invalided.  It  did  not,  however,  concern  me,  as  I  thought, 
and  I  turned  away  to  look  for  Mr.  Treherne,  that  I  might 
tell  him  I  would  escort  his  daughter  and  Mrs.  Callendar 
to  the  general  cemetery  at  Aden  as  I  had  promised  ;  for 
I  knew  he  was  not  fit  to  do  the  journey,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  prevent  my  going. 

A  few  hours  later  I  stood  with  Miss  Treherne  and 
Mrs.  Callendar  in  the  grave-yard  beside  the  fortress-wall, 
placing  wreaths  of  artificial  flowers  and  one  or  two 
natural  roses — a  chance  purchase  from  a  shop  at  the 
port — on  the  grave  of  the  young  journalist.  Miss  Tre- 
herne had  brought  some  sketching  materials,  and  both  of 
us  (for,  as  has  been  suggested,  I  had  a  slight  gift  for 
drawing)  made  sketches  of  the  burial-place.  Having 
done  this,  we  moved  away  to  other  parts  of  the  cemetery, 
looking  at  the  tombstones,  many  of  which  told  sad  tales 
enough, — of   those   who   died   in   exile   from  home   and 


IIO  MRS.    FALCHION* 

friends.  As  we  wandered  on  I  noticed  a  woman  kneel- 
ing beside  a  grave.  It  grew  upon  me  that  the  figure  was 
familiar.  Presently  I  saw  who  it  was,  for  the  face  lifted. 
I  excused  myself,  went  over  to  her,  and  said  :  "  Miss 
Caron,  you  are  in  trouble." 

She  looked  up,  her  eyes  swimming  with  tears,  and 
pointed  to  the  tombstone.     On  it  I  read  : 

"  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Hector  Caron, 

Ensign  in  the  French  Navy.  # 

Erected  by  his  friend,  Gait  RosCoe, 
Of  H.  B.  M.  N." 

Beneath  this  was  the  simple  line  : 

' '  Why,  what  evil  hath  he  done  ?  " 

"  He  was  your  brother  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Yes,  monsieur,  my  one  brother."  Her  tears  dropped 
slowly. 

"  And  Gait  Roscoe,  who  was  he  ? "  asked  I. 

Through  her  grief  her  face  was  eloquent.  "  I  never 
saw  him,  never  knew  him,"  she  said.  "  He  saved 
my  poor  Hector  from  much  suffering  ;  he  nursed  him, 
and  buried  him  here  when  he  died,  and  then — that  !  " 
pointing  to  the  tombstone.  "  He  made  me  love  the 
English,"  she  said.  "  Some  day  I  shall  find  him,  and  I 
shall  have  money  to  pay  him  back  all  he  spent — all  !  " 

Now  I  guessed  the  meaning  of  the  scene  on  board  the 
Fulviay  wmen  she  had  been  so  anxious  to  preserve  her 
present  relations  with  Mrs.  Falchion.  This  was  the 
secret,  a  beautiful  one.     She  rose. 

"  They  disgraced  Hector  in  New  Caledonia,"  she  said, 
"because  he  refused  to  punish  a  convict  at  He  Nou,  who 
did  not  deserve  it.  He  determined  to  go  to  France  to 
represent  his  case.  He  left  me  behind  because  we  were 
poor.  He  went  to  Sydney.  There  he  came  to  know  this 
good  man," — her   finger  gently  felt  his  name  upon  the 


MRS.    FALCHION.  Ill 

stone, — "who  made  him  a  guest  upon  his  ship  ;  and  so  he 
came  on  towards  England.  In  the  Indian  Ocean  he  was 
taken  ill :  and  this  was  the  end  !  " 

She  mournfully  sank  again  beside  the  grave,  but  she 
was  no  longer  weeping. 

"  What  was  this  officer's  vessel  ? "  I  asked  presently. 

She  drew  from  her  dress  a  letter.  "  It  is  here.  Please 
read  it  all.     He  wrote  that  to  me  when  Hector  died." 

The  superscription  to  the  letter  was  :  "  H.  B.  M.  S. 
Porcupi?ie"  I  might  have  told  her  then  that  the  Porcu- 
pine was  in  the  harbor  at  Aden,  but  I  felt  that  things 
would  work  out  to  their  due  end  without  my  help,  which, 
indeed,  they  began  to  do  immediately.  As  we  stood  there 
in  silence,  I  reading  over  and  over  again  the  line  upon 
the  pedestal,  I  heard  footsteps  behind,  and,  turning,  I 
saw  a  man  approaching,  who,  from  his  manner,  though 
dressed  in  civilian's  clothes,  I  guessed  to  be  an  officer 
of  the  navy.  He  was  of  more  than  middle  height,  had 
black  hair,  dark  blue  eyes,  straight,  strongly-marked 
brows,  and  was  clean-shaven.  He  was  a  little  ascetic- 
looking,  and  rather  interesting  and  uncommon  ;  and  yet 
unmistakably  a  sea-going  man.  It  was  a  face  one  would 
turn  to  look  at  again  and  again — a  singular  personality. 
And  yet  my  first  glance  told  me  that  he  was  not  one  who 
had  seen  much  happiness.  Perhaps  that  was  not  unat- 
tractive in  itself,  for  people  who  are  very  happy  show  it 
in  selfish  ways,  and  repel  where  they  should  attract.  He 
was  now  standing  near  the  grave,  and  his  eyes  were 
turned  from  one  to  the  other  of  us,  at  last  resting  on 
Justine.  Presently  I  saw  a  look  of  recognition.  He 
stepped   quickly  forward. 

"  Mademoiselle,  will  you  pardon  me  ? "  he  said  very 
gently,  "  but  you  remind  me  of  one  whose  grave  I  came 
to  see."  His  hand  made  a  slight  motion  toward  Hector 
Caron's  resting-place. 

Her  eyes  were  on  him  with  an  inquiring  earnestness. 


112  MRS.    FALCHION. 

"  O  monsieur  !    Is  it  possible  that  you  are  my  brother's 
friend  and  rescuer  ?  " 

"  I   am  Gait   Roscoe.     He  was   my  good  friend,"  he 
said  to  her,  and  he  held  out  his  hand.     She  took  it,  and 
kissed  it  reverently.     He  flushed  and  drew  it  back  quickly 
1  and  shyly. 

"  Some  day  I  shall  be  able  to  repay  you  for  all  your 
goodness,"  she  said.  "  I  am  only  grateful  now — grate- 
ful altogether.  And  you  will  tell  me  all  you  know  of 
him,  all  that  he  said  and  did  before  he  died  ?  " 

"  I  will  gladly  tell  you  all  I  know,"  he  answered,  and 
he  looked  at  her  compassionately,  and  yet  with  a  little 
scrutiny,  as  though  to  know  more  of  her,  and  how  she 
came  to  be  in  Aden.     He  turned  to  me  inquiringly. 

I  interpreted  his  thought  by  saying  :  "lam  the  sur- 
geon of  the  Fulvia.  I  chanced  upon  Miss  Caron  here. 
She  is  travelling  by  the  Fulvia" 

With  a  faint  voice  Justine  here  said, — "  Travelling— 
with  my  mistress." 

"  As  companion  to  a  lady,"  I  preferred  to  add  in  ex- 
planation, for  I  wished  not  to  see  her  humble  herself  so. 
A   look   of    understanding    came    into   Roscoe's    face. 
Then  he  said  :  "lam  glad  that  I  shall  see  more  of  you. 
I  am  also  to  travel  by  the  Fulvia  to  London." 

"  I  am  glad  ;  and  yet  I  am  afraid  I  shall  see  very  little 
of  you,"  she  quietly  but  meaningly  replied. 

He  was  about  to  say  something  to  her,  but  she  sud- 
denly swayed,  and  would  have  fallen,  but  that  he  caught 
her  and  supported  her.  The  weakness  lasted  only  for  a 
moment,  and  then,  steadying  herself,  she  said  to  both  of 
us  :  "I  hope  you  will  say  nothing  of  this  to  Madame. 
She  is  kind,  most  kind,  but  she  hates  illness — and  such 
things." 

Gait  Roscoe  looked  at  me  to  reply,  his  face  showing 
clearly  that  he  thought  "  Madame  "  an  extraordinary 
woman.     I  assured  Justine  that  we  would  say  nothing. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  113 

Then  Roscoe  cordially  parted  from  us,  saying  that  he 
would  look  forward  to  seeing  us  both  on  the  ship  ;  but 
before  he  finally  went,  he  put  on  the  grave  a  small  bou- 
quet from  his  button-hole.  Then  I  excused  myself  from 
Justine,  and  going  over  to  Belle  Treherne,  explained  to 
her  the  circumstances,  and  asked  her  if  she  would  speak 
to  the  afflicted  girl.  She  and  Mrs.  Callendar  had  been 
watching  the  incident,  and  they  eagerly  listened  to  me. 
I  think  this  was  the  moment  that  I  first  stood  really  well 
with  Belle  Treherne.  Her  sympathy  for  the  bereaved 
girl  flooded  many  barriers  between  herself  and  me. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said  quickly,  "  indeed  I  will  go  to  her — 
poor  girl  !     Will  you  come,  also,  Mrs.  Callendar?  " 

But  Mrs.  Callendar  timidly  said  she  would  rather  Miss 
Treherne  went  without  her  ;  and  so  it  was.  While  Belle 
Treherne  was  comforting  the  bereaved  girl,  I  talked  to 
Mrs.  Callendar.  I  fear  that  Mrs.  Callendar  was  but  a 
shallow  woman  ;  for,  after  a  moment  of  excitable  interest 
in  Justine,  she  rather  naively  turned  the  talk  upon  the 
charms  of  Europe.  And,  I  fear,  not  without  some  slight 
cynicism,  I  followed  her  where  she  led  :  for,  as  I  said  to 
myself,  it  did  not  matter  what  direction  our  idle  tongues 
took,  so  long  as  I  kept  my  mind  upon  the  two  beside  that 
grave  :  but  it  gave  my  conversation  a  spice  of  malice.  I 
dwelt  upon  Mrs.  Callendar's  return  to  her  native  heath — 
that  is,  the  pavements  of  Bond  Street  and  Piccadilly, 
although  I  knew  that  she  was  a  native  of  Tasmania.  At 
this  she  smiled  egregiously,  for  there  is  nothing  such  as 
she  love  so  much  as  the  credit  of  having  been  born  within 
the  sound  of  Bow  bells. 

At  length  Belle  Treherne  came  to  us  and  said  that 
Justine  insisted  she  was  well  enough  to  go  back  to  the 
vessel  alone,  and  wished  not  to  be  accompanied.  So  we 
left  her  there.  A  score  of  times  I  have  stopped,  when 
preparing  my  notes  for  this  tale  from  my  diary  and 
those  of  Mrs.  Falchion  and  Gait  Roscoe,  to  think  how 


114  MRS.    FALCHION. 

all  through  the  events  recorded  here,  and  many  others 
omitted,  Justine  Caron  was  like  those  devoted  attend- 
ants of  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  tragedy  who,  when 
all  is  over,  close  the  eyes,  compose  the  bodies,  and  cover 
the  faces  of  the  dead,  pronouncing  with  just  lips  the 
benediction,  fittest  in  their  mouths.  Their  loves,  their 
deeds,  their  lives,  however  good  and  worthy,  were  clothed 
in  modesty  and  kept  far  up  the  stage,  to  be,  even 
when  everything  was  over,  not  always  given  the  privi- 
lege to  die  as  did  their  masters,  but,  like  Horatio,  bade 
to  live,  and  be  still  the  loyal  servant : — "  But  in  this 
harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain  to  tell  my  story." 

There  was  no  reason  why  we  should  go  to  the  ship 
immediately,  and  I  proposed  that  we  should  first  explore 
the  port-town,  and  then  visit  the  city  of  Aden, — five  miles 
beyond  the  hills, — and  the  Tanks.  To  this  the  ladies 
consented. 

Somauli  policemen  patrolled  the  streets  ;  Somauli,  Arab, 
and  Turkish  guides  impeded  the  way  ;  Arabs  in  plain 
white,  Arab  sheikhs  in  blue  and  white  and  gold,  lounged 
languidly  about,  or  drank  their  coffee  in  the  shade  of  the 
bazaars.  Children  of  the  desert,  nearly  naked,  sprinkled 
water  before  the  doors  of  the  bazaars  and  stores  and 
upon  the  hot  thoroughfare  from  long  leather  bottles  ; 
caravans  of  camels  with  dusty  stride  swung  up  the  hill- 
side and  beyond  into  the  desert ;  the  Jewish  water-car- 
rier with  his  donkey  trudged  down  the  pass  from  the  cool 
fountains  in  the  volcanic  hills ;  a  guard  of  eunuchs 
marched  by  with  the  harem  of  a  Mohammedan  ;  in 
the  doorways  of  the  houses  goats  and  donkeys  fed. 
Jews  with  greasy  faces,  red -hemmed  skirts,  and  hungry 
looks,  moved  about,  offering  ostrich  feathers  for  sale, 
everywhere  treated  worse  than  the  Chinaman  in  Oregon 
or  at  Port  Darwin.  We  saw  English  and  Australian  pas- 
sengers of  the  Fulvia  pelting  these  miserable  members 
of  a  despised  race  with  green  fruit  about  the  streets,  and 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


"5 


afterwards  from  the  deck  of  the  ship.  A  number  of 
these  raised  their  hats  to  us  as  they  passed,  but  Belle 
Treherne's  acknowledgment  was  chilly. 

11  It  is  hard  to  be  polite  to  cowards,"  she  said. 

After  having  made  some  ruinous  bargains  in  fezes, 
Turkish  cloths,  and  perfume,  I  engaged  a  trap,  and  we 
started  for  Aden.  The  journey  was  not  one  of  beauty, 
but  it  had  singular  interest.  Every  turn  of  the  wheels 
carried  us  farther  and  farther  away  from  a  familiar  world 
to  one  of  yesterday.  White-robed  warriors  of  the  desert, 
with  lances,  bent  their  brows  upon  us  as  they  rode  by 
towards  the  endless  sands,  and  vagabonds  of  Egypt 
begged  for  alms.  In  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour  we 
had  passed  the  lofty  barriers  of  Jebel  Shamsan,  and  its 
comrades,  and  were  making  clouds  of  dust  in  the  streets 
of  Aden.  In  spite  of  the  cantonments,  the  British 
Government  House,  and  the  European  church,  it  was  an 
Oriental  town  pure  and  simple,  where  the  slow-footed 
hours  wandered  by,  leaving  apathy  in  their  train  ;  where 
sloth  and  surfeit  sat  in  the  market-places,  idle  women 
gossiped  in  their  thresholds,  and  naked  children  rolled  in 
the  sun.  Yet  how,  in  the  most  familiar  places,  does  one 
wake  suddenly  to  hear  or  see  some  most  familiar  thing, 
and  learn  again  that  the  ways  of  all  peoples  and  nations 
are  not,  after  all,  so  far  apart  !  —  Here  three  naked 
youths,  with  trays  upon  their  heads,  cried  aloud  at  each 
doorway  what,  interpreted,  was  :  "  Pies  !  Hot  pies  !  Pies 
aXLhotl"  or  "Crum-pet!  Cxwm-petf  Won't  you  buy-uy 
a  cmm-pet ? " 

One  sees  the  same  thing  in  Kandy,  in  Calcutta,  in 
Tokio,  in  Istamboul,  in  Teheran,  in  Queensland,  in 
London. 

To  us  the  great  Tanks  overlooking  the  place  were  more 
interesting  than  the  town  itself,  and  we  drove  thither. 
At  Government  House,  and  here,  were  the  only  bits 
of  green  that  we  had  seen  ;  they  are  in  fact  the  only 


Il6  MRS.    FALCHION. 

spots  of  verdure  on  the  peninsula  of  Aden.  It  was  a 
very  sickly  green,  from  which  wan  and  dusty  fig-trees 
rose.  In  their  scant  shadow,  or  in  the  shelter  of  an  over- 
hanging ledge  of  rock,  Arabs  offered  us  draughts  of  cool 
water  and  oranges.  There  were  people  in  the  sickly  gar- 
dens, and  others  were  inspecting  the  Tanks.  Passengers 
from  the  ship  had  brought  luncheon-baskets  to  this  sad 
oasis. 

As  we  stood  at  the  edge  of  one  of  the  Tanks,  Belle 
Treherne  remarked  with  astonishment  that  they  were 
empty.  I  explained  to  her  that  Aden  did  not  have  the 
benefits  conferred  even  on  the  land  of  the  seven  fat  and 
seven  lean  kine  ;  that  there  had  not  been  rain  there  for 
years,  and  that,  when  it  did  come,  it  was  neither  pro- 
longed nor  plentiful.  Then  came  questions  as  to  how 
long  ago  the  Tanks  were  built. 

"  Thirteen  hundred  years  !  "  she  said.  "  How  strange 
to  feel  it  so  !  It's  like  looking  at  old  graves.  And  how 
high  the  walls  are,  closing  up  the  gorge  between  the 
hills  !  " 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Callendar  drew  our  attention  to 
Mrs.  Falchion  and  a  party  from  the  ship.  Mrs.  Falchion 
was  but  a  few  paces  from  us,  smiling  languidly  as  she 
acknowledged  our  greeting.  Presently  two  of  her  party 
came  to  us  and  asked  us  to  share  their  lunch.  I  would 
have  objected,  and  I  am  certain  Belle  Treherne  would 
gladly  have  done  so,  but  Mrs.  Callendar  was  anxious  to 
accept;  therefore  we  expressed  our  gratitude,  and  joined 
the  group.  On  second  thoughts  I  was  glad  that  we  did 
so,  because,  otherwise,  my  party  must  have  been  without 
refreshments  until  they  returned  to  the  ship — the  restau- 
rants at  Aden  are  not  to  be  trusted.  To  me  Mrs. 
Falchion  was  pleasantly  impersonal,  to  Belle  Treherne 
delicately  and  actively  personal.  At  the  time  I  had  a 
kind  of  fear  of  her  interest  in  the  girl,  but  1  know  now 
that  it  was  quite  sincere,  though  it  began  with  a  motive 


MRS.    FALCHION.  II7 

not  very  lofty — to  make  Belle  Treherne  her  friend,  and 
so  annoy  me,  and  also  to  study  (as  would  an  anatomist) 
the  girl's  life. 

We  all  moved  into  the  illusive  shade  of  the  fig  and 
magnolia  trees,  and  lunch  was  soon  spread.  As  we  ate, 
conversation  turned  upon  the  annoying  persistency  of 
Eastern  guides,  and  reference  was  made  to  the  exciting 
circumstances  attending  the  engagement  of  Amshar,  the 
guide  of  Mrs.  Falchion's  party.  Among  a  score  of  claim- 
ants, Amshar  had  had  one  particular  opponent, — a  per- 
sonal enemy, — who  would  not  desist  even  when  the 
choice  had  been  made.  He,  indeed,  had  been  the  first 
to  solicit  the  party,  and  was  rejected  because  of  his 
disagreeable  looks.  He  had  even  followed  the  trap  from 
the  port  of  Aden.  As  one  of  the  gentlemen  was  remark- 
ing on  the  muttered  anger  of  the  disappointed  Arab, 
Mrs.  Falchion  said  :  "  There  he  is  now  at  the  gate  of  the 
garden." 

His  look  was  sullenly  turned  upon  the  party.  Black- 
burn, the  Queenslander,  said  :  "  Amshar,  the  other  fel- 
low is  following  up  the  game,"  and  pointed  to  the  gate. 

Amshar  understood  the  gesture,  at  least,  and  though 
he  gave  a  toss  of  his  head,  I  noticed  that  his  hand  trem- 
bled as  he  handed  me  a  cup  of  water,  and  that  he  kept 
his  eyes  turned  on  his  opponent. 

"  One  always  feels  unsafe  with  these  cut-throat  races," 
said  Colonel  Ryder,  "  as  some  of  us  know  who  have  had 
to  deal  with  the  nigger  of  South  America.  They  think 
no  more  of  killing  a  man " 

"  Than  an  Australian  squatter  does  of  dispersing  a  mob 
of  aboriginals  or  kangaroos,"  said  Clovelly. 

Here  Mrs.  Callendar  spoke  up  briskly  :  "  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean  by  '  dispersing  '.  " 

"  You  know  what  a  kangaroo-battue  is,  don't  you  ?" 

"  But  that  is  killing,  slaughtering  kangaroos  by  the 
hundred." 


Il8  MRS.    FALCHION. 

"Well,  and  that  is  aboriginal  dispersion,"  said  the 
novelist.  "  That  is  the  aristocratic  method  for  legislat- 
ing the  native  out  of  existence." 

Blackburn  here  vigorously  protested.  "  Yes,  it's  very- 
like  a  novelist,  on  the  hunt  for  picturesque  events,  to 
spend  his  forensic  soul  upon  the  '  poor  native  ' — upon 
the  dirty  nigger,  I  choose  to  call  him  ;  the  meanest, 
cruellest,  most  cowardly  and  murderous — By  Jove ! 
What  a  lot  of  adjectives  ! — of  native  races.  But  we 
chaps  who  have  lost  some  of  the  best  friends  we  ever 
had  —  chums  with  whom  we've  shared  blanket  and 
1  tucker ' — by  the  crack  of  a  nulla-nulla  in  the  dark,  or  a 
spear  from  the  scrub,  can't  find  a  place  for  Exeter  Hall 
and  its  '  poor  native  '  in  our  hard  hearts.  We  stand  in 
such  a  case  for  justice.  It's  a  new  country.  Not  once 
in  fifty  times  would  law  reach  them.  Reprisal  and  '  dis- 
persion '  were  the  only  things  possible  to  men  whose 
friends  had  been  massacred  ;  and — well,  they  punished 
tribes  for  the  acts  of  individuals." 

Mrs.  Falchion  here  said  convincingly :  "  That  is  just 
what  England  does.  A  British  trader  is  killed.  She 
sweeps  a  native  town  out  of  existence  with  Hotchkiss 
guns — leaves  it  naked  and  dead.  That  is  dispersion  too. 
I  have  seen  that,  and  I  know  how  far  niggers  as  a  race 
can  be  trusted,  and  how  much  they  deserve  sympathy. 
I  agree  with  Mr.  Blackburn." 

Blackburn  raised  his  glass.  "  Mrs.  Falchion,"  he  said, 
"  I  need  no  further  evidence  to  prove  my  case.  Experi- 
ence is  the  best  teacher." 

"  As  I  wish  to  join  the  chorus  to  so  notable  a  com- 
pliment, will  somebody  pass  the  claret  ? "  said  Colonel 
Ryder,  shaking  the  crumbs  of  a pati  from  his  coat-collar. 
When  his  glass  was  filled,  he  turned  towards  Mrs.  Fal- 
chion, and  continued  :  "  I  drink  to  the  health  of  the  best 
teacher."  And  everyone  laughingly  responded.  This 
impromptu    toast   would   have   been   drunk   with   more 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


II9 


warmth  if  he  could  have  foreseen  an  immediate  event. 
Not  less  peculiar  were  Mrs.  Falchion's  words  to  Hunger- 
ford  the  evening  before,  recorded  in  the  last  sentence 
of  the  preceding  chapter. 

Cigars  were  passed,  and  the  men  rose  and  strolled 
away.  We  wandered  outside  the  gardens,  passing  the 
rejected  guide  as  we  did  so.  "  I  don't  like  the  look  in 
his  eye,"  said  Clovelly. 

Colonel  Ryder  laughed.  "  You've  always  got  a  fine 
perception  for  the  dramatic." 

We  passed  on.  I  suppose  about  twenty  minutes  had 
gone,  when,  as  we  were  entering  the  garden  again,  we 
heard  loud  cries.  Hurrying  forward  towards  the  Tanks 
we  saw  a  strange  sight. 

There,  on  a  narrow  wall  dividing  two  great  Tanks, 
were  three  people  :  Mrs.  Falchion,  Amshar,  and  the 
rejected  Arab  guide.  Amshar  crouched  behind  Mrs. 
Falchion,  clinging  to  her  skirts  in  abject  fear.  The 
Arab  threatened  with  a  knife.  He  could  not  get  at 
Amshar  without  thrusting  Mrs.  Falchion  aside,  and,  as 
I  said,  the  wall  was  narrow.  He  was  bent  like  a  tiger 
about  to  spring. 

Seeing  Mrs.  Falchion  and  Amshar  apart  from  the 
others,  Mrs.  Falchion  having  insisted  on  crossing  this  nar- 
row and  precipitous  wall,  he  had  suddenly  rushed  after 
them.  As  he  did  so,  Belle  Treherne  saw  him,  and  cried 
out.  Mrs.  Falchion  faced  round  swiftly,  and  then  came 
this  tragic  situation.     Some  one  must  die. 

Seeing  that  Mrs.  Falchion  made  no  effort  to  dislodge 
Amshar  from  her  skirts,  the  Arab  presently  leaped  for- 
ward. Mrs.  Falchion's  hands  went  out  suddenly  and 
caught  the  wrist  that  held  the  dagger.  Then  there  was 
an  instant's  struggle.  It  was  Mrs.  Falchion's  life  now, 
as  well  as  Amshar's.  They  swayed.  They  hung  on  the 
edge  of  the  rocky  chasm.  Then  we  lost  the  gleam  of 
the  knife,  and  the  Arab  shivered,  and  toppled  over.  Mrs. 


120  MRS.    FALCHION. 

Falchion  would  have  gone  with  him,  but  Amshar  caught 
her  about  the  waist,  and  saved  her  from  the  fall  which 
would  have  killed  her,  as  certainly  as  it  killed  the  Arab 
lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  tank.  She  had  managed  to 
turn  the  knife  in  the  scoundrel's  hand  against  his  own 
breast,  and  then  suddenly  pressed  her  body  against  it ; 
but  the  impulse  of  the  act  came  near  carrying  her  over 
also. 

Amshar  was  kneeling  at  her  feet,  kissing  her  gown 
gratefully.  She  pushed  him  away  with  her  foot,  and, 
coolly  turning  aside,  began  to  arrange  her  hair  as  I 
approached  her.  She  glanced  down  at  the  Arab.  "  Hor- 
rible !     Horrible  !  "  she  said. 

I  remembered  that  these  were  her  words  when  her 
husband  was  lifted  from  the  sea  to  the  Fulvia. 

She,  not  ungently,  refused  my  hand,  or  any  assistance, 
and  came  down  among  the  rest  of  the  party.  I  could  not 
but  feel  a  strange  wonder  at  the  powerful  side  of  her 
character  just  shown  :  her  courage,  her  cool  daring.  In 
her  face  now  there  was  a  look  of  annoyance,  and,  possibly, 
disgust,  as  well  as  of  triumph — so  natural  in  cases  of 
physical  prowess.  Everybody  offered  congratulations, 
but  she  only  showed  real  pleasure,  and  that  mutely,  at 
those  of  Belle  Treherne.  To  the  rest  of  us  she  said  : 
"One  had  to  save  one's  self,  and  Amshar  was  a  coward." 
And  so  this  woman,  whose  hardness  of  heart  and  exces- 
sive cruelty  Hungerford  and  I  were  keeping  from  the 
world,  was  now  made  into  a  heroine,  around  whom  a  halo 
of  romance  would  settle,  whenever  her  name  should  be 
mentioned.  Now,  men,  eligible  and  ineligible,  would 
increase  their  homage.  It  seemed  as  if  the  stars  had 
stopped  in  their  courses  to  give  her  this  special  fortune. 
That  morning  I  had  thought  her  appearance  at  this 
luncheon-party  was  little  less  than  scandalous,  for  she 
knew,  if  others  did  not,  who  Boyd  Madras  was.  After 
the   occurrence  with  the  Arab,  the  other  painful  event 


MRS.    FALCHION.  121 

was  certainly  much  less  prominent,  and  here,  after  many- 
years,  I  can  see  that  the  act  was  less  in  her  than  it  would 
have  been  in  others.  For,  behind  her  outward  hardness 
there  was  a  sort  of  justice  working — an  iron  thing,  but 
still  not  altogether  unjustifiable  in  her. 

Belle  Treherne  got  also  a  new  perception  of  her  char- 
acter, and  a  kind  of  awe  possessed  her,  so  masculine 
seemed  Mrs.  Falchion's  courage,  yet  so  womanly  and 
feminine  her  manner.  Mrs.  Callendar  was  loud  in  her 
exclamations  of  delight  and  wonder  at  Mrs.  Falchion's 
coolness,  and  the  bookmaker,  with  his  usual  impetuosity, 
offered  to  take  bets  at  four  to  one  that  we  should  all  be 
detained  to  give  evidence  in  the  matter. 

Clovelly  was  silent.  He  occasionally  adjusted  his 
glasses,  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Falchion  as  if  he  had  sud- 
denly come  to  a  full  stop  in  his  opinions  regarding  her. 
This,  I  think,  was  noticed'  by  her,  and  enjoyed  too,  for 
she  doubtless  remembered  her  conversation  with  me,  in 
which  she  had  said  that  Clovelly  thought  he  understood 
her  perfectly.  Colonel  Ryder,  who  was  loyal  at  all  times, 
said  that  she  had  the  nerve  of  a  woman  from  Kentucky. 
Moreover,  he  had  presence  of  mind,  for  he  had  imme- 
diately sent  off  a  native  to  inform  the  authorities  of  what 
had  occurred  :  so  that  before  we  had  got  half-way  to  the 
town,  we  were  met  by  policemen  running  towards  us,  fol- 
lowed by  a  small  detachment  of  Indian  soldiers.  The 
officers  in  command  of  the  detachment  stopped  us,  and 
said  that  the  governor  would  be  glad  if  we  would  come 
to  Government  House  for  an  hour,  while  an  inquiry  was 
being  held. 

To  this  we  cheerfully  consented,  of  course  ;  and,  in  a 
room  where  punkahs  waved  and  cool  claret-cup  awaited 
us,  we  were  received  by  the  governor,  who  was  full  of 
admiration  of  Mrs.  Falchion.  It  was  plain,  however, 
that  he  was  surprised  at  her  present  equanimity.  Had 
she  uo  nerves  at  all  ? 


122  MRS.    FALCHION. 

"  I  can  only  regret  exceedingly,"  said  the  governor, 
"  that  your  visit  to  Aden  has  had  such  a  tragical  inter- 
ruption, but  since  it  did  occur,  I  am  glad  to  have  the 
privilege  of  meeting  a  lady  so  brave  as  Mrs.  Falchion." 
The  bookmaker  had  introduced  us  all  with  a  nawetf  that, 
I  am  sure,  amused  the  governor,  as  it  certainly  did  his 
aide-de-camp.  "  We  should  not  need  to  fear  the  natives 
if  we  had  soldiers  as  fearless,"  his  excellency  continued. 

At  this  point  the  inquiry  began,  and,  after  it  was  over, 
the  governor  said  that  there  the  matter  ended,  so  far  as 
we  were  concerned,  though  he  remarked  gallantly  that 
the  government  of  Aden  would  always  remain  Mrs.  Fal- 
chion's debtor.  She  replied  that  it  was  a  debt  she  would 
be  glad  to  preserve  unsettled  forever.  After  this  pretty 
exchange  of  compliments  the  governor  smiled  and 
offered  her  his  arm  to  the  door  where  our  char-a-bans 
awaited  us. 

So  impressed  was  the  bookmaker  with  the  hospitable 
reception,  that  he  offered  the  governor  his  cigar-case  with 
its  contents,  said  he  hoped  they'd  meet  again,  and  asked 
his  excellency  if  he  ever  thought  of  coming  to  Australia. 
The  governor  declined  the  cigars  graciously,  ignored  the 
hoped-for  pleasure  of  another  meeting,  and  trusted  that 
it  might  fall  to  his  lot  to  visit  Australia  some  day. 
Thereupon  the  bookmaker  insisted  on  the  aide-de-camp 
accepting  the  cigar-case,  and  gave  him  his  visiting-card. 
The  aide-de-camp  lost  nothing  by  his  good-humored 
acceptance,  if  he  smoked,  because,  as  I  knew,  the  cigars 
were  very  good  indeed.  And  the  governor's  party  lost 
nothing  in  dignity  because,  as  the  traps  wheeled  away, 
they  gave  a  polite  little  cheer  for  Mrs.  Falchion.  I,  at 
first,  was  fearful  how  Belle  Treherne  would  regard  the 
gaucheries  of  the  bookmaker,  but  I  saw  that  he  was 
rather  an  object  of  interest  to  her  than  otherwise  :  for  he 
was  certainly  amusing. 

As  we  drove  through  Aden,  a  Somauli  lad  shot  from 


MRS.    FALCHION.  123 

the  door  of  a  house,  and  handed  a  letter  up  to  the  driver 
of  my  trap.  It  bore  my  name,  and  was  handed  over  to 
me.  I  recognized  the  writing.  It  was  that  of  Boyd 
Madras.  He  had  come  ashore  by  Hungerford's  aid  in 
the  night.  The  letter  simply  gave  an  address  in  England 
which  would  always  find  him,  and  his  new  assumed  name. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  THE    PROGRESS    OF    THE    SUNS." 

News  of  the  event  had  preceded  us  to  the  Fulvia,  and 
as  we  scrambled  out  on  the  ship's  stairs,  cheers  greeted 
us.  Glancing  up  I  saw  Hungerford  among  others  lean- 
ing over  the  side  and  looking  at  Mrs.  Falchion  in  a 
curious,  cogitating  fashion,  not  unfamiliar  with  him. 
The  look  was  non-committal,  yet  earnest.  If  it  was  not 
approval,  it  was  not  condemnation  ;  but  it  might  have 
been  slightly  ironical,  and  that  annoyed  me.  It  seemed 
impossible  for  him — and  it  was  so  always,  I  believe — 
to  get  out  of  his  mind  the  thought  of  the  man  he  had 
rescued  on  No  Man's  Sea.  I  am  sure  it  jarred  upon  him 
that  the  band  foolishly  played  a  welcome  when  Mrs. 
Falchion  stepped  on  deck.  As  I  delivered  Belle  Tre- 
herne  into  the  hands  of  her  father  who  was  anxiously 
awaiting  us,  Hungerford  said  in  my  ear  :  "  A  tragedy 
queen,  Marmion." 

He  said  it  so  distinctly  that  Mrs.  Falchion  heard  it, 
and  she  gave  him  a  searching  look.  Their  eyes  met  and 
warred  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  added  :  "  I  remem- 
ber !  Yes,  I  can  respect  the  bravery  of  a  woman  I  do  not 
like." 

•'And  this  is  to-morrow!"  she  said,  "and  a  man  may 
change  his  mind,  and  that  may  be  fate,  or — a  woman's 


124  MRS.    FALCHION. 

whim."  She  bowed,  turned  away,  and  went  below,  evi- 
dently disliking  the  reception  she  had  had,  and  anxious 
to  escape  inquiries  and  congratulations.  Nor  did  she 
appear  again  until  the  Fidvia  got  under  way  about  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening.  As  we  moved  out  of  the  harbor 
we  passed  close  to  the  Porcupine,  and  saw  its  officers 
grouped  on  its  deck,  waving  adieus  to  some  one  on  our 
deck,  whom  I  guessed,  of  course,  to  be  Gait  Roscoe. 

At  this  time  Mrs.  Falchion  was  standing  near  me. 
"For  whom  is  that  demonstration? "  she  said. 

"  For  one  of  her  late  officers,  who  is  a  passenger  by  the 
Fulvia"  I  replied.  "  You  remember  we  passed  the  Por- 
cupine in  the  Indian  Ocean?  " 

"Yes,  I  know  that,"  she  said  with  a  shade  of  meaning 
in  her  voice.  "  But  " — here  I  thought  her  voice  had  a 
sign  of  breathlessness — "  but  who  is  the  officer  ? — I  mean, 
what  is  his  name  ?" 

"  He  stands  in  the  group  near  the  door  of  the  captain's 
cabin  there.     His  name  is  Gait  Roscoe." 

A  slight  exclamation  escaped  her.  There  was  a  chilly 
smile  on  her  lips,  and  her  eyes  searched  the  group  until 
they  rested  on  Gait  Roscoe.  In  a  moment  she  said  : 
"  You  have  met  him  ?  " 

"  In  the  cemetery  this  morning,  for  the  first  time." 

"  Everybody  seems  to  have  had  business  this  morn- 
ing at  the  cemetery.  Justine  Caron  spent  hours  there. 
.  .  .  To  me  it  is  so  foolish  heaping  up  a  mound  and 
erecting  a  tombstone  over — what  ?  A  dead  thing,  which, 
if  one  could  see  it,  would  be  dreadful." 

"You  would  prefer  complete  absorption — as  of  the 
ocean?"  I  brutally  retorted. 

She  appeared  not  to  notice  the  innuendo.  "  Yes  ;  what 
is  gone  is  gone.  Graves  are  idolatry.  Grave-stones  are 
ghostly.  It  is  people  without  imagination  who  need 
these  things,  together  with  crape  and  black-edged  paper. 
It  is  all  barbaric  ritual.     I  know  you  think  I  am  callous, 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


125 


but  I  cannot  help  that.  For  myself  I  wish  the  earth 
close  about  me,  and  level  green  grass  above  me,  and  no 
one  knowing  of  the  place  ;  or  else  fire  or  the  sea." 

"  Mrs.  Falchion,"  said  I,  "between  us  there  need  be 
no  delicate  words.  You  appear  to  have  neither  imagina- 
tion, nor  idolatry,  nor  remembrances,  nor  common  wom- 
anly kindness." 

"  Indeed  !  "  she  said.  "  Yet  you  might  know  me  bet- 
ter." Here  she  touched  my  arm  with  the  tips  of  her 
fingers,  and,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  felt  my  pulse  beat 
faster.  It  seemed  to  me  that  in  her  presence,  even  now, 
I  could  not  quite  trust  myself.  "  Indeed  !  "  she  repeated. 
"  And  who  made  you  omniscient,  Dr.  Marmion  ?  You 
hardly  do  yourself  justice.  You  hold  a  secret.  You 
insist  on  reminding  me  of  the  fact.  Is  that  in  perfect 
gallantry  ?  Do  you  know  me  altogether,  from  your 
knowledge  of  that  one  thing  ?  You  are  vain.  Or  the 
secret  wears  on  you,  and — Mr.  Hungerford  ?  .  .  . 
Did  you  find  it  necessary  to  seek  his  help  in  keeping  it  ?  " 

I  told  her  then  the  true  history  of  Hungerford's  con- 
nection with  Boyd  Madras — how  he  had  found  him  on 
the  No  Man's  Sea  ;  and  begged  her  pardon  for  showing 
just  now  my  knowledge  of  her  secret.  At  this  she  said  : 
"  I  suppose  I  should  be  grateful,"  and  there  was  a  softer 
cadence  in  her  voice. 

"  No,  you  need  not  be  grateful,"  I  said.  "We  are 
silent,  first,  because  he  wished  it  ;  then,  because  you  are 
a  woman." 

"You  define  your  reasons  with  astonishing  care  and 
taste,"  she  replied. 

"  Oh,  as  to  taste  !  "  said  I — but  then  I  bit  my  tongue. 
At  that  she  said  :  "  I  could  not  pretend  to  a  grief  I  did 
not  feel.  I  acted  no  lie.  He  died  as  we  had  lived — 
estranged.     I  put  up  no  memorials." 

But  I,  thinking  of  my  mother  lying  in  her  grave,  a 
woman   after    God's   own    heart,    who    loved    me   more 


126  MRS.    FALCHION. 

tnan  I  deserved,   repeated  almost  unconsciously    these 
lines  clipped  from  a  magazine  : 

"  Sacred  the  ring,  the  faded  glove, 
Once  worn  by  one  we  used  to  love  ; 
Dead  warriors  in  their  armor  live, 
And  in  their  relics  saints  survive. 

"O  Mother  Earth,  henceforth  defend 
All  thou  hast  garnered  of  my  friend  ; 
From  winter's  wind  and  driving  sleet, 
From  summer's  sun  and  drenching  heat. 

"Within  thine  all-embracing  breast, 
Is  hid  one  more  forsaken  nest ; 
While,  in  the  sky,  with  folded  wings, 
The  bird  that  left  it  sits  and  sings." 

I  paused  ;  the  occasion  seemed  so  little  suited  to  the 
sentiment,  for  around  us  was  the  idle  excitement  of 
leaving  port.  I  was  annoyed  with  myself  for  my  share 
in  the  conversation  so  far.  Mrs.  Falchion's  eyes  had 
scarcely  left  that  group  around  the  captain's  door,  al- 
though she  had  appeared  acutely  interested  in  what  I  was 
saying. 

Now  she  said:  "You  recite  very  well.  I  feel  im- 
pressed, but  I  fancy  it  is  produced  more  by  your 
voice  than  the  sentiments  you  express  ;  for,  after  all, 
you  cannot  glorify  the  dead  body.  Think  of  the  mummy 
of  Thothmes  at  Boulak,  and  what  Cleopatra  must  look 
like  now.  And  please  let  us  talk  about  something  else. 
Let  us " 

She  paused.  I  followed  the  keen  shaded  glance  of 
her  eyes,  and  saw  coming  from  the  group  by  the  cap- 
tain's door,  Gait  Roscoe.  He  moved  in  our  direction. 
Suddenly  he  paused.  His  look  was  fixed  upon  Mrs. 
Falchion.  A  flush  passed  over  his  face,  not  exactly  con- 
fusing, but  painful,  and  again  it  left  him  pale  ;  and  for 
a  moment  he  stood  very  still.     Then  he  came  forward 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


127 


to  us.  He  bowed  to  me,  then  looked  hard  at  her.  She 
held  out  her  hand.  "  Mr.  Gait  Roscoe,  I  think,"  she 
said; — "  an  old  friend,"  she  added,  turning  to  me.  He 
gravely  took  her  extended  hand,  and  said  :  "  I  did  not 
think  to  see  you  here,  Miss " 

"Mrs.  Falchion,"  she  interrupted  clearly. 

"Mrs.  Falchion?"  he  said  with  surprise.  "It  is  so 
many  years  since  we  had  met,  and " 

"And  it  is  so  easy  to  forget  things.  But  it  isn't  so 
many  really — only  seven,  the  cycle  for  constitutional 
renewal.  Dear  me,  how  erudite  that  sounds  !  .  .  .So, 
I  suppose  we  meet  the  same  yet  not  the  same." 

"  The  same  yet  not  the  same,"  he  repeated  after  her 
with  an  attempt  at  lightness,  yet  abstractedly. 

"  I  think  you  gentlemen  know  each  other,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  we  met  in  the  cemetery  this  morning.  I  was 
visiting  the  grave  of  a  young  French  officer " 

"I  know,"  she  said:  "Justine  Caron's  brother.  She 
has  told  me  ;  but  she  did  not  tell  me  your  name." 

"  She  has  told  you  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes.  She  is  my— companion."  I  saw  that  she  did 
use  the  word' that  first  came  to  her. 

"  How  strangely  things  occur  !  .  .  .  And  yet,"  he 
added  musingly,  "  I  suppose,  after  all,  coincidence  is  not 
so  strange  in  these  days  of  much  travel,  particularly  with 
people  whose  lives  are  connected — more  or  less." 

"Whose  lives  are  connected — more  or  less,"  she  re- 
peated after  him  in  a  cold  tone. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  received  my  cue  to  leave. 
I  bowed  myself  away  and  went  about  my  duties.  As 
we  steamed  bravely  through  the  Straits  of  Babelmandeb, 
with  Perim  on  our  left,  rising  lovely  through  the  milky 
haze,  I  came  on  deck  again,  and  they  were  still  near 
where  I  had  left  them  an  hour  before.  I  passed,  glanc- 
ing at  them  as  I  did  so.  They  did  not  look  towards 
me.  His  eyes  were  turned  to  the  shore,  and  hers  were 
9 


128  MRS.    FALCHION. 

fixed  on  him.  I  saw  an  expression  on  her  lips  that 
gave  her  face  new  character.  She  was  speaking,  as  I 
thought,  clearly  and  mercilessly.  I  could  not  help  hear- 
ing her  words,  as  I  passed  them  :  "  You  are  going  to  be 
that—you  /  "  There  was  a  ring  of  irony  in  her  tone.  I 
heard  nothing  more  in  words,  but  I  saw  him  turn  to  her 
somewhat  sharply,  and  I  caught  the  deep  meaning  of  his 
voice  as  he  answered  her.  When,  a  moment  after,  I 
looked  back,  she  had  gone  below. 

Gait  Roscoe  had  a  seat  at  Captain  Ascott's  table,  and  I 
did  not'see  anything  of  him  at  meal  time  ;  but  elsewhere 
I  soon  saw  him  a  great  deal.  He  appeared  to  seek  my 
company.  I  was  glad  of  this,  for  he  was  an  agreeable 
man,  and  had  distinct  originality  of  ideas  and  consider- 
able culture.  He  also  had  that  social  aplomb,  so  much  a 
characteristic  of  the  naval  officer.  Yet,  man  of  the  world 
as  he  was,  he  had  a  puzzling  strain  of  asceticism.  It  did 
not  make  him  eccentric,  but  it  was  not  a  thing  usual  with 
the  naval  man.  Again,  he  wished  to  be  known  simply  as 
Mr.  Roscoe,  not  as  Captain  Roscoe,  which  was  his  rank. 
He  said  nothing  about  having  retired,  yet  I  guessed  he 
had  done  so.  One  evening,  however,  soon  after  we  had 
left  Aden,  we  were  sitting  in  my  cabin,  and  the  conversa- 
tion turned  upon  a  recent  novel  dealing  with  the  defec- 
tion of  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England  through 
agnosticism.  The  keenness  with  which  he  threw  himself 
into  the  discussion,  and  the  knowledge  he  showed,  sur- 
prised me.  I  knew  (as  most  medical  students  get  to 
know,  until  they  know  better)  some  scientific  objections 
to  Christianity ;  and  I  put  them  forward.  He  clearly  and 
powerfully  met  them.  I  said  at  last,  laughingly  :  "  Why, 
you  ought  to  take  holy  orders." 

"That  is  what  I  am  going  to  do,"  he  said  very  seri- 
ously, "when  I  get  to  England.  I  am  resigning  the 
navy."  At  that  instant  there  flashed  through  my  mind 
Mrs.  Falchion's  words  :  "You  are  going  to  be  that— you  !  " 


MRS.    FALCHION.  T29 

Then  he  explained  to  me  that  he  had  been  studying  for 
two  years,  and  expected  to  go  up  for  deacon's  orders 
soon  after  his  return  to  England.  I  cannot  say  that  I 
was  greatly  surprised,  for  I  had  known  a  few,  and  had 
heard  of  many,  men,  who  had  exchanged  the  Navy  for 
the  Church.  It  struck  me,  however,  that  Gait  Roscoe 
appeared  to  view  the  matter  from  a  standpoint  not  pro- 
fessional :  the  more  so,  that  he  expressed  his  determina- 
tion to  go  to  the  newest  part  of  a  new  country  to  do  the 
pioneer  work  of  the  Church.  I  asked  him  where  he  was 
going,  and  he  said  to  the  Rocky  Mountains  of  Canada. 
I  told  him  that  my  destination  was  Canada  also.  He 
warmly  expressed  the  hope  that  we  should  see  something 
of  each  other  there.  Our  friendship  may  seem  to  have 
been  hastily  hatched  ;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that 
the  sea  is  a  great  breeder  of  friendship.  Two  men  wTho 
have  known  each  other  for  twenty  years,  find  that  twenty 
days  at  sea  bring  them  nearer  than  ever,  or  else  estrange 
them. 

It  was  en  this  evening  that,  in  a  lull  of  the  conversa- 
tion, I  casually  asked  him  where  he  had  known  Mrs. 
Falchion.  His  face  was  inscrutable,  but  he  said  some- 
what hurriedly  :  "  In  the  South  Sea  Islands."  He  then 
changed  the  subject. 

So,  there  was  some  mystery  again.  Was  this  woman 
never  to  be  dissociated  from  enigma  ?  In  those  days 
I  never  could  think  of  her,  save  in  connection  with  some 
fatal  incident  in  which  she  was  scathless  and  some  one 
else  suffered. 

During  the  first  day  or  two  after  leaving  Aden,  Gait 
Roscoe  and  Mrs.  Falchion  were  very  little  together. 
Then  the  impression  grew  that  this  was  his  doing,  and 
again  that  she  waited  with  confident  patience  for  the  time 
when  he  would  seek  her — because  he  could  not  help 
himself.  Often  when  other  men  were  paying  her  devoted 
cou-%  I  caught  her  eyes  turned  in  his  direction,  and  I 


13° 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


thought  I  read  in  her  smile  a  consciousness  of  power. 
And  so  it  was.  Very  soon  he  was  at  her  side.  But  I  also 
noticed  that  he  began  to  look  worn  ;  that  his  conversation 
with  me  lagged.  I  think  that  at  this  time  I  was  so  much 
occupied  with  tracing  personal  appearances  to  personal 
influences,  that  I  lost,  to  some  degree,  the  physician's 
practical  keenness.  My  eyes  were  to  be  opened.  He 
appeared  to  be  suffering,  and  she  seemed  to  unbend 
to  him  more  than  she  ever  unbent  to  me  or  any  one  else 
on  board.  Hungerford  seeing  this,  said  to  me  one  day 
in  his  blunt  fashion  :  "  Marmion,  old  Ulysses  knew  what 
he  was  about  when  he  hugged  the  mast." 

Then  Hungerford  talked  with  me  concerning  the  gos- 
sip on  the  after-deck,  that  the  drunken  Lascar  whom  I 
had  found  in  a  fit  in  my  cabin  the  day  of  the  terrible  acci- 
dent had  not  been  seen  since  that  time.  It  was  supposed 
that  he  had  either  got  off  at  Aden  or  had  drowned  him- 
self.   I  fear  I  did  not  concern  myself  much  in  the  matter. 

The  routine  of  the  ship  went  on  as  before.  For- 
tunately, Mrs.  Falchion's  heroism  at  Aden  had  taken 
the  place  of  the  sensation  attending  the  previous  dis- 
aster. Those  who  tired  of  thinking  of  both  became  mildly 
interested  in  Red  Sea  history.  Chief  among  these  was 
the  bookmaker.  As  an  historian  the  bookmaker  was 
original.  He  cavalierly  waved  aside  all  such  confusing 
things  as  dates  :  made  Moses  and  Mahomet  contempo- 
raneous ;  incidentally  referred  to  King  Solomon's  visits 
to  Cleopatra  ;  and  with  sad  irreverence  spoke  of  the  Exo- 
dus and  the  destruction  of  Pharaoh's  horses  and  chariots 
as  the  big  handicap.  He  did  not  mean  to  be  irreverent 
or  unhistorical.  He  merely  wished  to  enlighten  Mrs. 
Callendar,  who  said  he  was  very  original  and  quite 
clever  at  history.  His  really  startling  points,  however, 
were  his  remarks  upon  the  colors  of  the  mountains  of 
Egypt,  and  the  sunset  tints  to  be  seen  on  the  Red  Sea 
and  the  Suez  Canal.     To  him  the  grey  and  pink  and 


MRS.    FALCHION.  131 

melancholy  gold  only  brought  up  visions  of  a  race  at 
Epsom  or  Flemington — generally  Flemington,  where  the 
staring  Australian  sun  pours  down  on  an  emerald  course, 
oti  a  score  of  horses  straining  to  the  start,  the  colors 
of  the  jockeys'  coats  and  hats  changing  in  the  struggle 
like  a  kaleidoscope.  The  comparison  between  the  moun- 
tains of  Egypt  and  a  race-course  might  seem  wildly 
absurd,  if  one  did  not  remember  that  the  bookmaker  had 
his  own  standards,  and  that  he  thought  he  was  paying 
unusual  honor  to  the  land  of  the  Fellah.  Clovelly  plain- 
tively said,  as  he  drank  his  hock  and  seltzer,  that  the 
bookmaker  was  hourly  saving  his  life :  and  Colonel 
Ryder  admitted  at  last  that  Kentucky  never  produced 
anything  quite  like  him. 

The  evening  before  we  came  to  the  Suez  Canal  I  was 
walking  with  Belle  Treherne  and  her  father.  I  had  seen 
Gait  Roscoe  in  conversation  with  Mrs.  Falchion.  Pres- 
ently I  saw  him  rise  to  leave  her.  A  moment  after,  in 
passing,  I  was  near  her.  She  sprang  up,  caught  my  arm, 
and  pointed  anxiously.  I  looked  and  saw  Gait  Roscoe 
swaying  as  he  walked. 

"  He  is  ill— ill  !  "  she  said. 

I  ran  forward  and  caught  him  as  he  was  falling.  Ill  ? 
Of  course  he  was  ill.  What  a  fool  I  had  been  !  Five 
minutes  with  him  assured  me  that  he  had  fever.  I  had 
set  his  haggard  appearance  down  to  worry.  And  I  was 
going  to  be  a  professor  in  a  medical  college  !  .  .  . 
Yet  I  know  now  that  a  troubled  mind  hastened  the 
fever. 


CHAPTER   X. 

BETWEEN    DAY    AND    DARK. 

From  the  beginning  Gait  Roscoe's  fever  was  violent. 
It  had  been    hanging   about  him  for  a  long  time — the 


I32  MRS.    FALCHION. 

result  of  malarial  poisoning.  I  devoutly  wished  that  we 
were  in  the  Mediterranean  instead  of  the  Red  Sea,  where 
the  heat  was  so  great ;  but,  fortunately,  we  should  soon 
be  there.  There  was  no  other  case  of  sickness  on  board, 
and  I  could  devote  plenty  of  time  to  him.  Offers  of 
assistance  in  nursing  were  frequent,  still  I  only  encour- 
aged those  of  the  bookmaker,  strange  as  this  may  seem — 
but  indeed  he  was  as  gentle  and  considerate  as  a  woman 
in  the  sick-room.  This  was  on  the  first  evening  of  his 
attack.  After  that  I  had  reasons  for  dispensing  with  even 
his  generous  services. 

The  night  after  he  was  taken  ill,  we  were  passing 
through  the  canal,  the  search-light  of  the  Fulvia  sweep- 
ing the  path  ahead  of  it,  and  glorifying  everything  it 
touched.  Mud-barges  were  fairy  palaces  ;  Arab-punts, 
beautiful  gondolas ;  the  ragged  Egyptians  on  the  banks 
became  picturesque  ;  and  the  desolate  country  behind 
had  a  wide  vestibule  of  splendor.  I  stood  for  half  an 
hour  watching  this  scene,  then  I  went  below  to  Roscoe's 
cabin  and  relieved  the  bookmaker.  The  sick  man  was 
sleeping  from  the  effects  of  a  sedative  draught.  The 
bookmaker  had  scarcely  gone,  when  I  heard  a  step 
behind  me,  and  I  turned  and  saw  Justine  Caron  stand- 
ing timidly  at  the  door,  her  eyes  upon  the  sleeper.  She 
spoke  quietly. 

"  Is  he  very  ill  ?  " 

I  answered  that  he  was,  but  that  for  some  days  I  could 
not  tell  how  dangerous  the  illness  might  be.  She  went  to 
the  berth  where  he  lay,  the  reflected  light  from  without 
playing  weirdly  on  his  face,  and  smoothed  the  pillow 
gently. 

"  If  you  are  willing,  I  will  watch  for  a  time,"  she  said. 
"  Everybody  is  on  deck.  Madame  said  she  would  not 
need  me  for  a  couple  of  hours.  I  will  send  a  steward  for 
you  if  he  wakes  ;  you  need  rest  yourself." 

That  I  needed  rest  was  quite  true,  for  I  had  been  up 


MRS.    FALCHION.  133 

all  the  night  before  ;  still  I  hesitated.  She  saw  my  hesi- 
tation, and  added  : 

"  It  is  not  much  that  I  can  do,  still  I  should  like 
to  do  it.  I  can  at  least  watch."  Then,  very  earnestly  : 
"  He  watched  beside  Hector." 

I  left  her  with  him,  her  ringers  moving  the  small  bag 
of  ice  about  his  forehead  to  allay  the  fever,  her  eyes 
patiently  regarding  him.  I  went  on  deck  again.  I  met 
Belle  Treherne  and  her  father.  They  both  inquired  for 
the  sick  man,  and  I  told  Belle — for  she  seemed  much 
interested — the  nature  of  such  malarial  fevers,  the  acute 
forms  they  sometimes  take,  and  the  kind  of  treatment 
required.  She  asked  several  questions,  showing  a  keen 
understanding  of  my  explanations,  and  then,  after  a 
moment's  silence,  said  meditatively :  "  I  think  I  like 
men  better  when  they  are  doing  responsible  work  ;  it  is 
difficult  to  be  idle  and — important  too." 

I  saw  very  well  that,  with  her,  I  should  have  to  con- 
tend for  a  long  time  against  those  first  few  weeks  of 
dalliance  on  the  Fulvia. 

Clovelly  joined  us,  and,  for  the  first  time, — if  I  had 
not  been  so  egotistical,  it  had  appeared  to  me  before 
— I  guessed  that  his  somewhat  professional  interest  in 
Belle  Treherne  had  developed  into  a  very  personal 
thing.  And  with  that  came  also  the  thought,  what  a 
very  powerful  antagonist  he  would  be. — For  it  improves 
some  men  to  wear  glasses,  and  Clovelly  had  a  delight- 
ful, wheedling  tongue  ;  it  was  illusive,  contradictory  (a 
thing  pleasing  to  women),  respectful  yet  playful,  bold  yet 
reverential.  Many  a  time  I  have  longed  for  Clovelly's 
tongue.  Unfortunately  for  me  I  learned  some  of  his 
methods  without  his  art  ;  and  of  this  I  am  occasionally 
reminded  at  this  day.  A  man  like  Clovelly  is  dangerous 
as  a  rival  when  he  is  not  in  earnest  ;  when  he  is  in  ear- 
nest, it  becomes  a  lonely  time  for  the  other  man — unless 
the  girl  is  perverse. 


134  MRS.    FALCHION. 

I  left  the  two  together  and  moved  about  the  deck, 
trying  to  think  closely  about  Roscoe's  case,  and  to  drive 
Clovelly's  invasion  from  my  mind.  I  succeeded,  and  was 
only  roused  by  Mrs.  Falchion's  voice  beside  me. 

"  Does  he  suffer  much  ?  "  she  murmured. 

When  answered  she  asked  nervously  how  he  looked. 
„  .  .  It  was  impossible  for  her  to  consider  misery  without 
shrinking.  I  told  her  that  he  was  only  flushed  and  hag- 
gard as  yet,  and  that  he  was  a  little  wasted.  A  thought 
flashed  to  hex'  face.  She  was  about  to  speak,  but  paused. 
After  a  moment,  however,  she  remarked  evenly  :  "  He  is 
likely  to  be  delirious  ?  " 

"  It  is  probable,"  I  replied. 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  search-light.  The  look 
was  inscrutable.  She  continued  quietly :  "  I  will  go 
and  see  him,  if  you  will  let  me.  Justine  will  go  with 
me." 

"  Not  now,"  I  replied.  "  He  is  sleeping.  To-morrow, 
if  you  will." 

I  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  tell  her  that  Justine  was 
at  that  moment  watching  beside  him.  We  walked  the 
deck  together  in  silence. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  that  you  care  to  walk  with  me. 
Please  don't  make  the  matter  a  burden." 

She  did  not  say  this  with  any  invitation  to  courteous 
protest  on  my  part  ;  but  rather  with  a  cold  frankness,  for 
which,  I  confess,  I  always  admired  her.  I  said  now  : 
"Mrs.  Falchion,  you  have  suggested  what  might  easily 
be  possible  in  the  circumstances  ;  but  I  candidly  admit 
that  I  have  never  yet  found  your  presence  disagreeable  : 
and  I  suppose  that  is  a  comment  upon  my  weakness. 
Though,  to  speak  again  with  absolute  truth,  I  think  I  do 
not  like  you  at  this  moment." 

"  Yes,  I  fancy  I  can  understand  that,"  she  said.  "  I  can 
understand  how,  for  instance,  one  might  feel  just  and 
great  resentment,  and   have  the   instrument  of   punish- 


MRS.    FALCHION.  I35 

ment,  and  yet  withhold  one's  hand  and  protect  where 
one  should  injure." 

At  this  moment  these  words  had  no  particular  signifi- 
cance to  me,  but  there  chanced  a  time  when  they  came 
home  with  great  force.  I  think,  indeed,  that  she  was 
speaking  more  to  herself  than  to  me.  Suddenly  she 
turned  to  me. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  if  I  am  as  cruel  as  you  think 
me  ;  for,  indeed,  I  do  not  know.  .  .  .  But  I  have 
been  through  many  things." 

Here  her  eyes  grew  cold  and  hard.  The  words  that 
followed  seemed  in  no  sequence  :  "  Yet,"  she  said,  "  I 
will  go  and  see  him  to-morrow.     .     .     .     Good-night." 

After  about  an  hour  I  went  below  to  Gait  Roscoe's 
cabin.  I  drew  aside  the  curtain  quietly.  Justine  evi- 
dently had  not  heard  me.  She  was  sitting  beside  the 
sick  man,  her  fingers  still  smoothing  away  the  pillow 
from  his  fevered  face,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  him.  I 
spoke  to  her.  She  rose.  "  He  has  slept  well,"  she  said. 
And  she  moved  to  the  door. 

"Miss  Caron,"  I  said,  "if  Mrs.  Falchion  is  willing,  you 
could  help  me  to  nurse  Mr.  Roscoe  ?  " 

A  light  sprang  to  her  eyes.     "  Indeed,  yes,"  she  said. 

"  I  will  speak  to  her  about  it,  if  you  will  let  me." 

Her  look  was  eloquent  of  thanks.  After  a  word  of 
good-night  we  parted. 

I  knew  that  nothing  better  could  come  to  Gait  Roscoe 
than  Justine  Caron's  care.  This  would  do  far  more  for 
him  than  medicine — the  delicate  care  of  a  woman  than 
many  pharmacopoeias. 

Hungerford  had  insisted  on  relieving  me  for  a  couple 
of  hours  at  midnight.  He  said  it  would  be  a  good  prep- 
aration for  going  on  the  bridge  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  About  half-past  two  he  came  to  my  cabin  and 
waked  me,  saying  :  "  He  is  worse — delirious  ;  you  had 
better  come." 


136  MRS.    FALCHION. 

He  was  indeed  delirious.  Hungerford  laid  his  hand 
on  my  shoulder.  "  Marmion,"  said  he,  "that  woman  is 
in  it.  Like  the  devil,  she's  ubiquitous.  Mr.  Roscoe's 
past  is  mixed  up  with  hers  somehow.  I  don't  suppose 
men  talk  absolute  history  in  delirium,  but  there's  no 
reason,  I  suppose,  why  they  shouldn't  paraphrase.  .  .  . 
I'd  reduce  the  number  of  nurses  to  a  minimum  if  I  were 
you." 

A  determined  fierceness  possessed  me  at  the  moment. 
I  said  to  him  :  "  She  shall  nurse  him,  Hungerford,  she 
and  Justine  Caron  and  myself." 

"  Plus  Dick  Hungerford,"  he  added.  "  I  don't  know 
how  you  intend  to  work  this  thing,  but  you  have  the 
case  in  your  hands,  and  what  you've  told  me  about 
the  French  girl  shows  that  she's  to  be  trusted.  But,  as 
for  myself,  Marmion,  M.D.,  I'm  sick,  sick,  sick  of  this 
woman  and  all  her  words  and  works.  I  believe  that  she 
has  brought  bad  luck  to  this  ship  ;  and  it's  my  last 
voyage  on  it,  and — I  begin  to  think  you're  a  damned 
good  fellow — excuse  the  insolence  of  it — and  good- 
night." 

For  the  rest  of  the  night  I  listened  to  Gait  Roscoe's 
wild  words.  He  tossed  from  side  to  side,  and  murmured 
brokenly.  Taken  separately,  and  as  they  were  spoken, 
his  words  might  not  be  very  significant,  but  pieced  to- 
gether, arranged,  and  interpreted  through  even  scant 
knowledge  of  circumstances,  they  were  sufficient  to  give 
a  key  to  difficulties  which,  afterwards,  were  to  cause  much 
distress.  I  arrange  some  of  the  sentences  here,  to  show 
how  startling  were  the  fancies— or  remembrances— that 
vexed  him  : — 

"  But  I  was  coming  back— I  was  coming  back— I  tell 
you  I  should  have  stayed  with  her  forever.  .  .  . 
See  how  she  trembles — Now  her  breath  is  gone— There 
is  no  pulse— Her  heart  is  still— My  God  !  Her  heart  is 
still— Hush,  cover  her  face.     .      .     .      Row  hard,  you 


MRS.    FALCHION.  137 

devils — A  hundred  dollars  if  you  make  the  point  in 
time.  .  .  .  Whereaway  ?— Whereaway  ? — Steady  now 
—Let  them  have  it  across  the  bows — Low  !  Low  ! — Fire 
Low  !     .     .     .     She  is  dead — She  is  dead  !  " 

These  things  he  would  say  over  and  over  again,  breath- 
lessly ;  then  he  would  rest  awhile,  and  the  trouble  would 
begin  again.  "  It  was  not  I  that  did  it — No,  it  was  not  I 
— It  was  herself — She  plunged  it  in,  deep,  deep,  deep 
— You  made  me  a  devil.  .  .  .  Hush  !  I  will  tell.  I 
know — Mercy — Mercy — Falchion.     .     .     ." 

Yes,  it  was  best  that  few  should  enter  his  cabin.  The 
raving  of  a  sick  man  is  not  always  counted  ravings,  no 
more  than  the  words  of  a  well  man  are  always  reckoned 
sane.  At  last  I  got  him  into  a  sound  sleep,  and  by  that 
time  I  was  thoroughly  tired  out.  I  called  my  own  stew- 
ard, and  asked  him  to  watch  for  a  couple  of  hours  while 
I  rested.  I  threw  myself  down  and  slept  soundly  for  an 
hour  beyond  that  time,  the  steward  having  hesitated  to 
wake  me. 

Now  we  had  passed  into  the  fresher  air  of  the  Medi- 
terranean, and  the  sea  was  delightfully  smooth.  Gait 
Roscoe  still  slept,  though  his  temperature  was  high. 

My  conference  with  Mrs.  Falchion  after  breakfast  was 
brief  but  satisfactory.  I  told  her  frankly  that  Roscoe 
had  been  delirious,  that  he  had  mentioned  her  name,  and 
that  I  thought  it  best  to  reduce  the  number  of  nurses 
and  watchers.  I  made  my  proposition  about  Justine 
Caron.  She  shook  her  head  a  little  impatiently,  and  said 
that  Justine  had  told  her,  and  that  she  was  quite  willing. 
Then  I  asked  her  if  she  would  not  also  assist.  She  an- 
swered immediately  that  she  wished  to  do  so.  As  if  to 
make  me  understand  why  she  did  it,  she  added  :  "  If  I 
do  not  hear  the  wild  things  he  says,  someone  else 
will ;  and  the  difference  is  that  I  understand  them, 
and  the  someone  else  would  interpret  them  with  the 
genius  of  the  writer  of  a  fairy  book." 


138  MRS.    FALCHION. 

And  so  it  happened  that  Mrs.  Falchion  came  to  sit 
many  hours  a  day  beside  the  sick  couch  of  Gait  Roscoe, 
moistening  his  lips,  cooling  his  brow,  giving  him  his  medi- 
cine. After  the  first  day  when  she  was,  I  thought,  al- 
ternating between  innate  disgust  of  misery  and  her 
womanliness  and  humanity — in  these  days  more  a  reality 
to  me — she  grew  watchful  and  silently  solicitous  at  every 
turn  of  the  malady.  What  impressed  me  most  was  that 
she  was  interested  and  engrossed — more,  it  seemed,  in 
the  malady  than  in  the  man  himself.  And  yet  she  baf- 
fled me  even  when  I  had  reached  this  conclusion. 

During  most  of  the  delirium,  she  remained  almost  im- 
passive— as  if  she  had  schooled  herself  to  be  calm  and 
strong  in  nerve  ;  but  one  afternoon  she  did  a  thing  that 
upset  all  my  opinions  of  her  for  a  moment.  Looking 
straight  at  her  with  staring,  unconscious  eyes,  Roscoe 
half  rose  in  his  bed,  and  said  in  a  low,  bitter  tone :  "  I  hate 
you.  ...  I  once  loved  you.  .  .  .  But  I  hate  you 
now."  Then  he  laughed  scornfully  and  fell  back  on  the 
pillow.  She  had  been  sitting  very  quietly,  musing.  His 
action  had  been  unexpected.  She  rose  quickly,  gave  a 
sharp  in-drawn  breath,  and  pressed  her  hand  against  her 
side,  as  if  caught  by  a  sudden  pain.  The  next  moment, 
however,  she  was  composed  again  ;  and  said  in  expla- 
nation that  she  had  been  half  asleep  and  he  had  startled 
her.  But  I  had  seen  her  in,  what  seemed  to  me,  more 
trying  circumstances,  and  she  had  not  shown  nervousness 
such  as  this. 

The  passengers  of  course  talked.  Many  "true  histo- 
ries "  of  Mrs.  Falchion's  devotion  to  the  sick  man  were 
abroad  ;  but  it  must  be  said,  however,  that  all  of  them 
were  romantically  creditable  to  her.  She  had  become  a 
rare  product  even  in  the  eyes  of  Belle  Treherne  and, 
more  particularly,  her  father,  since  the  matter  at  the  Tanks. 
Justine  Caron  was  slyly  besieged  by  the  curious,  but  they 
went  away  empty  ;  for  Justine,  if  very  simple  and  single- 


MRS.    FALCHION.  139 

minded,  was  yet  too  much  concerned  for  both  Gait  Roscoe 
and  Mrs.  Falchion  to  give  the  inquiring  the  slightest 
clue.  She  knew,  indeed,  little  herself,  whatever  she  may- 
have  guessed.  As  for  Hungerford,  he  was  dumb.  He 
refused  to  consider  the  matter.  But  he  roundly  main- 
tained once  or  twice,  without  any  apparent  relevance,  that 
a  woman  was  like  a  repeating  decimal,  you  could  follow 
her,  but  you  never  could  reach  her.  He  usually  added 
to  this,  "minus  one,  Marmion,"  meaning  thus  to  exclude 
the  girl  who  preferred  him  to  any  one  else.  When  I  ven- 
tured to  suggest  that  Belle  Treherne  might  also  be  ex- 
cepted, he  said  with  maddening  suggestion  :  "  She  lets 
Mrs.  Falchion  fool  her,  doesn't  she  ?  And  she  isn't  quite 
sure  the  splendor  of  a  medical  professor's  position  is 
superior  to  that  of  an  author  ? " 

In  these  moments,  although  I  tried  to  smile  on  him, 
I  hated  him  a  little.  I  sought  to  revenge  myself  by 
telling  him  to  help  himself  to  a  cigar,  having  first  placed 
the  box  of  Mexicans  near  him.  He  invariably  declined 
them,  and  said  he  would  take  one  of  the  others  from 
the  tea-box — my  very  best,  kept  in  tea  for  dryness.  If 
I  reversed  the  process,  he  reversed  his  action.  His 
instinct  regarding  cigars  was  supernatural,  and  I  almost 
believe  that  he  had— like  the  Black  Dwarf's  cat — the 
"  poo'er  "  of  reading  character  and  interpreting  events, — 
an  uncanny  divination. 

I  knew  by  the  time  we  reached  Valetta  that  Roscoe 
would  possibly  get  well ;  but  he  knew  none  of  us  until 
we  arrived  at  Gibraltar.  Justine  Caron  and  myself  had 
been  watching  beside  him.  As  the  bells  clanged  to  slow 
down,  on  entering  the  harbor,  his  eyes  opened  with  a 
gaze  of  sanity  and  consciousness.  He  looked  at  me,  then 
at  Justine. 

"  I  have  been  ill !  "  he  said. 

Justine's  eyes  were  not  entirely  to  be  trusted.  She 
turned  her  head  away. 


140  MRS.    FALCHION. 

"Yes,  you  have  been  ill,"  I  replied,  "but  you  are 
better." 

He  smiled  feebly,  adding  :  "  I  am  glad  that  I  did  not 
die  at  sea."  Then  he  closed  his  eyes.  After  a  moment 
he  opened  them  and  said,  looking  at  Justine  :  "  You 
have  helped  to  nurse  me,  have  you  not  ?  "  His  wasted 
fingers  moved  over  the  coverlet  towards  her. 

"  I  could  do  so  little,"  she  murmured. 

"  You  have  more  than  paid  your  debt  to  me,"  he 
gently  replied.  "  For  I  live,  you  see,  and  poor  Hector 
died." 

She  shook  her  head  gravely,  and  rejoined  :  "  Ah,  no  ! 
I  can  never  pay  the  debt  I  owe  to  you  and  to  God — 
now." 

He  did  not  understand  this,  I  know.     But  I  did. 

"  You  must  not  talk  any  more,"  I  said  to  Lim. 

But  Justine  interposed.  "  He  must  be  told  that  the 
nurse  who  has  done  most  for  him  is  Mrs.  Falchion. " 

His  brows  contracted  as  if  he  were  trying  to  remem- 
ber something.  He  moved  his  head  wearily.  "  Yes,  I 
think  I  remember,"  he  said,  "about  her  being  with  me  ; 
but  nothing  clearly — nothing  clearly.  .  .  .  She  is 
very  kind." 

Justine  here  murmured  :  "  Shall  I  tell  her  ? " 

I  was  about  to  say  No,  but  Roscoe  nodded,  and  re- 
marked quickly,  "Yes,  yes." 

Then  I  made  no  objection,  but  urged  that  the  meet- 
ing should  only  be  for  a  moment.  I  determined  not  to 
leave  them  alone  even  for  that  moment.  I  did  not 
know  what  things  connected  with  their  past — whatever 
it  was — might  be  brought  up ;  and  I  knew  that  entire 
freedom  from  excitement  was  necessary.  I  might  have 
spared  myself  any  anxiety  on  the  point.  When  she  came 
she  was  perfectly  self-composed,  and  more  as  she  seemed 
when  I  first  knew  her. 

It  seems  strange  to  write  of  a  few  weeks  before  as  the 


MRS.    FALCHION.  141 

past.     But  so  much  had   occurred  that  the  days  might 
easily  have  been  months,  and  the  weeks  years. 

She  sat  down  beside  him  and  held  out  her  hand. 
And,  as  she  did  so,  I  thought  of  Boyd  Madras  and  of 
her  refusal  to  say  to  him  one  comforting  word,  or  to 
touch  his  hand  in  forgiveness  and  friendship.  And  was 
this  man  so  much  better  than  Boyd  Madras  ?  His  wild 
words  in  delirium  might  mean  nothing,  but  if  they  meant 
anything,  and  she  knew  of  that  anything,  she  was  still  the 
heartless,  unnatural  woman. 

B.oscoe  took  her  hand  and  held  it  briefly.  "  Dr.  Mar- 
mion  says  that  you  have  helped  to  nurse  me  through  my 
illness,"  he  whispered.      "  I  am  very  grateful." 

I  thought  she  replied  with  the  slightest  constraint  in 
her  voice.  "  One  could  not  let  an  old  acquaintance  die 
without  trying  to  save  him." 

At  that  instant  I  grew  angry,  and  longed  to  tell  him 
of  her  husband.  But  then  a  husband  was  not  an  ac- 
quaintance. I  remarked  instead:  "  I  am  sorry,  but  I  must 
cut  short  all  conversation  for  the  present.  When  he  is  a 
little  better  he  will  be  benefited  by  your  brightest  gossip, 
Mrs,  Falchion." 

She  rose  smiling,  but  she  did  not  again  take  his  hand, 
though  I  thought  he  made  a  motion  to  that  end.  But 
she  looked  down  at  him  steadily  for  a  moment.  Beneath 
her  look  his  face  flushed,  and  his  eyes  grew  hot  with 
light ;  then  they  dropped,  and  the  eyelids  closed  on 
them.  At  that  she  said  with  an  incomprehensible  airiness, 
"  Good-night.  I  am  going  now  to  play  the  music  of 
La  Grande  Duchesse  as  a  farewell  to  Gibraltar.  They 
have  a  concert  on  to-night."     Then  she  was  gone. 

At  the  mention  of  La  Grande  Duchesse  he  sighed,  and 
turned  his  head  away  from  her.  What  it  all  meant  I 
did  not  know,  and  she  had  annoyed  me  as  much  as  she 
had  perplexed  me  ;  her  moods  were  as  the  chameleon's 
colors.      He  lay  silent  for  a  long  time,  then  he  turned 


142  MRS.    FALCHION. 

to  me  and  said  :  "  Do  you  remember  that  tale  in  the 
Bible  about  David  and  the  well  of  Bethlehem  ? "  I  had 
to  confess  my  ignorance. 

"I  think  I  can  remember  it,"  he  continued.  And 
though  I  urged  him  not  to  tax  himself,  he  spoke  slowly 
thus  : 

"  A?td  David  was  in  the  hold,  and  the  Philistine's  gar- 
rison was  then  in  Bethlehe?n. 

"And  David  lo?iged,  and  said,  Oh  that  one  would  give  ?ne 
to  drink  of  the  water  of  the  well  of  Bethlehem  that  is  at  the 
gate  1 

"And  the  three  brake  through  the  host  of  the  Philistines, 
and  drew  water  out  of  the  well  of  Bethlehem  that  was  by 
the  gate,  and  took  a?zd  brought  it  to  David :  nevertheless  he 
would  not  drink  thereof,  but  poured  it  out  unto  the  Lord. 

"And  he  said,  My  God  forbid  it  me  that  I  should  do  this  : 
is  not  this  the  blood  of  the  men  that  went  in  jeopardy  of 
their  lives  ?     Therefore  he  would  not  drink  it." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  added  :  "  One  always 
brings  back  the  past  at  a  tremendous  price.  Resurrec- 
tions give  ghosts  only." 

"But  you  must  sleep  now,"  I  urged.  And  then, 
because  I  knew  not  what  else  more  fitting,  I  added  : 
"  Sleep,  and 

'  Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead.' 

"  Yes,  I  will  sleep,"  he  answered. 


BOOK   II. 
The    Slope    of    the    Pacific. 


chapter  XI. 

AMONG    THE    HILLS    OF    GOD. 

"  Your  letters,  sir,"  said  my  servant,  on  the  last  even- 
ing of  the  college  year.  Examinations  were  over  at  last, 
and  I  was  wondering  where  I  should  spend  my  holidays. 
The  choice  was  very  wide  ;  ranging  from  the  Muskoka 
Lakes  to  the  Yosemite  Valley.  Because  it  was  my  first 
year  in  Canada,  I  really  preferred  not  to  go  beyond 
the  Dominion.  With  these  thoughts  in  my  mind  I 
opened  my  letters.  The  first  two  did  not  interest  me  ; 
tradesmen's  bills  seldom  do.  The  third  brought  a 
thumping  sensation  of  pleasure — though  it  was  not  from 
Belle  Treherne.  I  had  had  one  from  her  that  morning, 
and  this  was  a  pleasure  which  never  came  twice  in  one 
day,  for  Prince's  College,  Toronto,  was  a  long  week's 
journey  from  London,  S.  W.  Considering,  however,  that 
I  did  receive  letters  from  her  once  a  week,  it  may  be 
concluded  that  Clovelly  did  not ;  and  that,  if  he  had,  it 
wrould  have  been  by  a  serious  infringement  of  my  rights. 
But,  indeed,  as  I  have  learned  since,  Clovelly  took  his 
defeat  in  a  very  characteristic  fashion,  and  said  on  an 
important  occasion  some  generous  things  about  me. 

The   letter  that  pleased  me  so  much  was  from  Gait 
Roscoe,  who,  as  he  had  intended,  was  settled  in  a  new 


144  MRS-    FALCHION. 

but  thriving  district  of  British  Columbia,  near  the  Cascade 
Mountains.  Soon  after  his  complete  recovery  he  had 
been  ordained  in  England,  had  straightway  sailed  for 
Canada,  and  had  gone  to  work  at  once.  This  note  was 
an  invitation  to  spend  the  holiday  months  with  him, 
where,  as  he  said,  a  man  "  summering  high  among  the 
hills  of  God  "  could  see  visions  and  dream  dreams,  and 
hunt  and  fish  too — especially  fish.  He  urged  that  he 
would  not  talk  parish  concerns  at  me,  that  I  should  not 
be  asked  to  be  godfather  to  any  young  mountaineers,  and 
that  the  only  drawback,  so  far  as  my  own  predilections 
were  concerned,  was  the  monotonous  health  of  the  people. 
He  described  his  summer  cottage  of  red  pine  as  being 
built  on  the  edge  of  a  lovely  ravine  ;  he  said  that  he  had 
the  Cascades  on  one  hand  with  their  big  glacier  fields, 
and  mighty  pine  forests  on  the  other  ;  while  the  balmiest 
breezes  of  June  awaited  "  the  professor  of  pathology  and 
genial  saw-bones."  At  the  end  of  the  letter  he  hinted 
something  about  a  pleasant  little  secret  for  my  ear  when 
I  came  ;  and  remarked  immediately  afterwards  that  there 
were  one  or  two  delightful  families  at  Sunburst  and 
Viking,  villages  in  his  parish.  One  naturally  associated 
the  little  secret  with  some  member  of  one  of  these 
delightful  families.  Finally  he  said  he  would  like  to 
show  me  how  it  was  possible  to  transform  a  naval  man 
into  a  parson. 

My  mind  was  made  up.  I  wrote  to  him  that  I  would 
start  at  once.  Then  I  began  to  make  preparations,  and 
meanwhile  fell  to  thinking  again  about  him  who  was  now 
the  Reverend  Gait  Roscoe.  After  the  Fulvia  reached 
London  I  had  only  seen  Him  a  few  times,  he  having  gone 
at  once  into  the  country  to  prepare  for  ordination.  Mrs. 
Falchion  and  Justine  Caron  I  had  met  several  times,  but 
Mrs.  Falchion  forbore  inquiring  for  Gait  Roscoe  ;  from 
which,  and  from  other  slight  but  significant  matters,  I 
gathered  that  she  knew  of  his  doings  and  whereabouts. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  I45 

Before  I  started  for  Toronto  she  said  that  she  might  see 
me  there  some  day,  for  she  was  going  to  San  Francisco 
to  inspect  the  property  her  uncle  had  left  her,  and  in  all 
probability  would  make  a  sojourn  in  Canada.  I  gave 
her  my  address,  and  she  then  said  she  understood  that 
Mr.  Roscoe  intended  taking  a  missionary  parish  in  the 
wilds.  In  his  occasional  letters  to  me  while  we  all  were 
in  England  Roscoe  seldom  spoke  of  her,  but,  when  he 
did,  showed  that  he  knew  of  her  movements.  This  did 
not  strike  me  at  the  time  as  anything  more  than  natural. 
It  did  later. 

Within  a  couple  of  weeks  I  reached  Viking,  a  lumber- 
ing town  with  great  saw-mills,  by  way  of  San  Francisco 
and  Vancouver.  Roscoe  met  me  at  the  coach,  and  I 
was  taken  at  once  to  the  house  among  the  hills.  It  stood 
on  the  edge  of  a  ravine,  and  the  end  of  the  veranda 
looked  over  a  verdant  precipice,  beautiful  but  terrible 
too.  It  was  uniquely  situated  ;  a  nest  among  the  hills, 
suitable  either  for  work  or  play.  In  one's  ears  was  the 
low  continuous  note  of  the  rapids  and  the  music  of  a 
neighboring  waterfall. 

On  the  way  up  the  hills  I  had  a  chance  to  observe 
Roscoe  closely.  His  face  had  not  that  sturdy  buoyancy 
which  his  letter  suggested.  Still,  if  it  was  pale,  it  had  a 
glow  which  it  did  not  possess  before,  and  even  a  stronger 
humanity  than  of  old.  A  new  look  had  come  into  his 
eyes,  a  certain  absorbing  earnestness,  refining  the  asceti- 
cism noticeable  in  the  past.  A  more  amiable  and  un- 
selfish comrade  man  never  had. 

The  second  day  I  was  there  he  took  me  to  call  upon  a 
family  at  Viking,  the  town  with  a  great  saw-mill  and  two 
smaller  ones,  owned  by  James  Devlin,  an  enterprising 
man  who  had  grown  rich  at  lumbering,  and  who  lived  here 
in  the  mountains  many  months  in  each  year.  Mr.  James 
Devlin  had  a  daughter  who  had  had  some  advantages  in 
the  East  after  her  father  had  become  rich  ;  though  her 


146  MRS.    FALCHION. 

earlier  life  was  spent  altogether  in  the  mountains.  I 
soon  saw  where  Roscoe's  secret  was  to  be  found.  Ruth 
Devlin  was  a  tall  girl  of  sensitive  features,  beautiful  eyes, 
and  rare  personality.  Her  life,  as  I  came  to  know,  had 
been  one  of  great  devotion  and  self-denial.  Before  her 
father  had  made  his  fortune  she  had  nursed  a  frail- 
bodied,  faint-hearted  mother,  and  had  cared  for,  and 
been  a  mother  to,  her  younger  sisters.  With  wealth  and 
ease  came  a  brighter  bloom  to  her  cheek,  but  it  had  a 
touch  of  care  which  would  never  quite  disappear,  though 
it  became  in  time  a  beautiful  wistf ulness  rather  than  anx- 
iety. Had  this  responsibility  come  to  her  in  a  city,  it 
might  have  spoiled  her  beauty  and  robbed  her  of  her 
youth  altogether  :  but,  in  the  sustaining  virtue  of  a  life 
in  the  mountains,  warm  hues  remained  on  her  cheek  and 
a  wonderful  freshness  in  her  nature.  Her  family  wor- 
shipped her — as  she  deserved. 

That  evening  Roscoe  confided  to  me  that  he  had  not 
asked  Ruth  Devlin  to  be  his  wife,  nor  had  he,  indeed, 
given  her  definite  tokens  of  his  love.  But  the  thing  was  in 
his  mind  as  a  happy  possibility  of  the  future.  We  talked 
till  midnight,  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  veranda  overlook- 
ing the  ravine.  This  corner,  called  the  coping,  became 
consecrated  to  our  many  conversations.  We  painted  and 
sketched  there  in  the  morning  (when  we  were  not  fishing 
or  he  was  not  at  his  duties),  received  visitors,  and  smoked 
in  the  evening,  inhaling  the  balsam  from  the  pines. 
An  old  man  and  his  wife  kept  the  house  for  us,  and  gave 
us  to  eat  of  simple  but  comfortable  fare.  The  trout-fish- 
ing was  good,  and  many  a  fine  trout  was  broiled  for  our 
evening  meal  ;  and  many  a  fine  string  of  trout  found  its 
way  to  the  tables  of  Roscoe's  poorest  parishioners,  or 
else  to  furnish  the  more  fashionable  table  at  which  Ruth 
Devlin  presided.  There  were  excursions  up  the  valley, 
and  picnics  on  the  hillsides,  and  occasional  lunches  and 
evening  parties  at  the  summer  hotel,  a  mile  from  us  farther 


MRS.    FALCHION.  147 

down  the  valley,  at  which  tourists   were   beginning   to 
assemble. 

Yet,  all  the  time,  Roscoe  was  abundantly  faithful  to 
his  duties  at  Viking,  and  in  the  settlement  called  Sun- 
burst, which  was  devoted  to  salmon-fishing.  Between 
Viking  and  Sunburst  there  was  a  great  jealousy  and  ri- 
valry. For  the  salmon-fishers  thought  that  the  mills, 
though  on  a  tributary  stream,  interfered,  by  the  saw- 
dust spilled  in  the  river,  with  the  travel  and  spawning 
of  the  salmon.  It  needed  all  the  tact  of  both  Mr.  Dev- 
lin and  Roscoe  to  keep  the  places  from  open  fighting. 
As  it  was,  the  fire  smouldered.  When  Sunday  came 
however,  there  seemed  to  be  truce  between  the  villages. 
It  appeared  to  me  that  one  touched  the  primitive  and 
idyllic  side  of  life  :  lively,  sturdy,  and  simple  ;  with 
nature  about  us  at  once  benignant  and  austere.  It  is 
impossible  to  tell  how  fresh,  bracing,  and  inspiring  was 
the  climate  of  this  new  land.  It  seemed  to  glorify  human- 
ity, to  make  all  who  breathed  it  stalwart,  and  almost 
pardonable  even  in  wrong  doing.  Roscoe  was  always 
received  respectfully,  and  even  cordially,  among  the  sal- 
mon-fishers of  Sunburst,  as  among  the  mill-men  and  river- 
drivers  of  Viking :  not  the  less  so,  because  he  had  an 
excellent  faculty  for  machinery,  and  could  talk  to  the  peo- 
ple in  their  own  colloquialisms.  He  had  besides,  though 
there  was  little  exuberance  in  his  nature,  a  gift  of  dry 
humor,  which  did  more  than  anything  else,  perhaps,  to 
make  his  presence  among  them  unrestrained.  His  little 
churches  at  Viking  and  Sunburst  were  always  well 
attended,  often  filled  to  overflowing,  and  the  people  gave 
liberally  to  the  offertory  :  and  I  never  knew  any  clergy- 
man, however  holy,  who  did  not  view  such  a  proceeding 
with  a  degree  of  complacency.  In  the  pulpit  Roscoe 
was  almost  powerful.  His  knowledge  of  the  world,  his 
habits  of  directness,  his  eager  but  not  hurried  speech, 
his  unconventional  but  original  statements  of  things,  his 


148  MRP,    FALCHION. 

occasional  literary  felicity  (which  means  tact\  might 
have  made  him  distinguished  in  a  more  cultured  com- 
munity. Yet  there  was  something  to  modify  all  this  :  an 
occasional  indefinable  sadness,  a  constant  note  of  pathetic 
warning.  It  struck  me  that  I  never  had  met  a  man 
whose  words  and  manner  were  at  times  so  charged  with 
pathos  ;  it  was  artistic  in  its  searching  simplicity.  There 
was  some  unfathomable  fount  in  his  nature  which  was 
even  beyond  any  occurrence  of  his  past ;  some  radical, 
constitutional  sorrow,  coupled  with  a  very  strong,  prac- 
tical, and  even  vigorous,  nature. 

One  of  his  most  ardent  admirers  was  a  gambler,  horse- 
trader,  and  watch-dealer,  who  sold  him  a  horse,  and 
afterwards  came  and  offered  him  thirty  dollars,  saying 
that  the  horse  was  worth  that  much  less  than  Roscoe  had 
paid  for  it,  and  protesting  that  he  never  could  resist  the 
opportunity  of  getting  the  best  of  a  game.  He  said  he 
didn't  doubt  but  that  he  would  do  the  same  with  one  of 
the  archangels.  He  afterwards  sold  Roscoe  a  watch  at 
cost,  but  confessed  to  me  that  the  works  of  the  watch 
had  been  smuggled.  He  said  he  was  so  fond  of  the 
parson  that  he  felt  he  had  to  give  him  a  chance  of  good 
things.  It  was  not  uncommon  for  him  to  discourse  of 
Roscoe's  quality  in  the  bar-rooms  of  Sunburst  and  Vik- 
ing :  in  which  he  was  ably  seconded  by  Phil  Boldrick,  an 
eccentric,  warm-hearted  fellow,  who  was  so  occupied  in 
the  affairs  of  the  villages  generally,  and  so  much  an  ad- 
visory board  to  the  authorities,  that  he  had  little  time 
left  to  make  much  progress  industrially  himself. 

Once  when  a  noted  bully  came  to  Viking,  and,  out 
of  sheer  bravado  and  meanness,  insulted  Roscoe  in  the 
streets,  two  or  three  river-drivers  jumped  forward  to 
avenge  the  insult.  It  was  quite  needless,  for  the  clergy- 
man had  promptly  taken  the  case  in  his  own  hands. 
Waving  them  back  he  said  to  the  bully, — "  I  have  no 
weapon,  and  if  I  had,  I  could  not  take  your  life  nor  try 


MRS.    FALCHION.  I49 

to  take  it  ;  and  you  know  that  very  well.  But  I  pro- 
pose to  meet  your  insolence,— the  first  shown  me  in  this 
town." 

Here  murmurs  of  approbation  went  round. 

"  You  will,  of  course,  take  the  revolver  from  your 
pocket,  and  throw  it  on  the  ground." 

A  couple  of  other  revolvers  were  looking  the  bully  in 
the  face,  and  he  sullenly  did  as  he  was  asked. 

"  You  have  a  knife  :  throw  that  down." 

This  also  was  done  under  the  most  earnest  emphasis 
of  the  revolvers.  Roscoe  calmly  took  off  his  coat.  "  I 
have  met  such  scoundrels  as  you  on  the  quarter-deck," 
he  said,  "  and  I  know  what  stuff  is  in  you.  They  call 
you  beach-combers  in  the  South  Seas.  You  never  fight 
fair.  You  bully  women,  knife  natives,  and  never  meet 
any  one  in  fair  fight.  You  have  mistaken  your  man 
this  time." 

He  walked  close  up  to  the  bully,  his  face  like  steel, 
his  thumbs  caught  lightly  in  his  waistcoat  pockets  ;  but 
it  was  noticeable  that  his  hands  were  shut. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  we  are  even  as  to  opportunity. 
Repeat,  if  you  please,  what  jou  said  a  moment  ago." 

The  bully's  eye  quailed,  and  he  answered  nothing. 

"  Then,  as  I  said,  you  are  a  coward  and  a  cur,  who 
insults  peaceable  men  and  weak  women.  If  I  know 
Viking  right,  it  has  no  room  for  you."  Then  he  picked 
up  his  coat  and  put  it  on. 

"  Now,"  he  added,  "  I  think  you  had  better  go  ; — but  I 
leave  that  to  the  citizens  of  Viking." 

What  they  thought  is  easily  explained.  Phil  Boldrick 
speaking  for  all  said  :  "  Yes,  you  had  better  go,— quick  : 
but  on  the  hop  like  a  cur,  mind  you  :  on  your  hands  and 
knees,  jumping  all  the  way." 

And,  with  weapons  menacing  him,  this  visitor  to  Viking 
departed,  swallowing  as  he  went  the  red  dust  disturbed 
b1-  his  hands  and  feet, 


150  MRS.    FALCHION. 

This  established  Roscoe's  position  finally.  Yet,  with 
all  his  popularity  and  the  solid  success  of  his  work,  he 
showed  no  vanity  or  egotism,  nor  ever  traded  on  the 
position  he  held  in  Viking  and  Sunburst.  He  seemed 
to  have  no  ambition  further  than  to  do  good  work  ;  no 
desire  to  be  known  beyond  his  own  district  ;  no  fancy, 
indeed,  for  the  communications  of  his  labors  to  mission 
papers  and  benevolent  ladies  in  England — so  much  the 
habit  of  his  order.  He  was  free  from  professional  man- 
nerisms. 

One  evening  we  were  sitting  in  the  accustomed  spot — 
that  is,  the  coping. 

We  had  been  silent  for  a  long  time.  At  last  Roscoe 
rose,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  veranda  nervously. 

"  Marmion,"  said  he,  "  I  am  disturbed  to-day,  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  :  a  sense  of  impending  evil,  an  anxiety." 

I  looked  up  at  him  inquiringly,  and,  of  purpose,  a 
little  sceptically. 

He  smiled  something  sadly  and  continued  :  "  Oh,  I 
know  you  think  it  foolishness.  But  remember  that  all 
sailors  are  more  or  less  superstitious  ;  it  is  bred  in  them  ; 
it  is  constitutional  ;  and  I'm  afraid  there's  a  good  deal 
of  the  sailor  in  me  yet." 

Remembering  Hungerford  I  said  :  "  Yes,  I  know  you 
are  superstitious  ;  the  most  hard-hearted  of  you  are  that. 
But  it  means  nothing.  I  may  think  or  feel  that  there's 
going  to  be  a  plague,  but  I  shouldn't  enlarge  the  in- 
surance on  my  life  because  of  it." 

He  put  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder  and  looked  down  at 
me  earnestly.  "  But,  Marmion,  these  things,  I  assure  you, 
are  not  matters  of  will,  nor  yet  morbidness.  They  occur 
at  the  most  unexpected  times.  I  have  felt  such  sensa- 
tions before,  and  they  were  followed  by  strange  matters." 

I  nodded,  but  said  nothing.  I  was  still  thinking  of 
Hungerford.  After  a  slight  pause  he  continued  some- 
what hesitatingly  : 


MRS.    FALCHION.  151 

"  I  dreamed  last  night,  three  times,  of  events  that 
occurred  in  my  past  ;  events  which  I  hoped  would  never 
disturb  me  in  the  life  I  am  now  leading." 

"A  life  of  self-denial,"  ventured  I.  I  waited  a  minute 
and  then  added  :  "  Roscoe,  I  think  it  only  fair  to  tell 
you  (I  don't  know  why  I  haven't  done  so  before)  that 
when  you  were  ill,  you  were  delirious  and  talked  of  things 
that  may  or  may  not  have  had  to  do  with  your  past." 

He  started  and  looked  at  me  earnestly. 

"  They  were  unpleasant  things  ?  " 

"  Trying  things  ;  though  all  was  vague  and  discon- 
nected," I  replied. 

"  I  am  glad  you  tell  me  this,"  he  remarked  quietly. 
"  And  Mrs.  Falchion  and  Justine  Caron  —  did  they 
hear  ?  "     He  looked  off  to  the  hills. 

"  To  a  certain  extent,  I  am  sure.  Mrs.  Falchion's  name 
was  generally  connected  with  your  —  fancies.  .  .  • 
But  really  no  one  could  place  any  weight  on  what  a  man 
said  in  delirium,  and  I  only  mention  the  fact  to  let  you 
see  exactly  on  what  ground  I  stand  with  you." 

"  Can  you  give  me  an  idea  of — the  thing  I  raved 
about  ?  " 

"  Chiefly  about  a  girl  called  Alo, — not  your  wife,  I 
should  judge — who  was  killed." 

At  that  he  spoke  in  a  dry  voice  :  "  Marmion,  I  will  tell 
you  all  the  story  some  day  ;  but  not  now.  I  hoped  that 
I  had  been  able  to  bury  it,  even  in  memory,  but  I  was 
wrong.  Some  things — such  things — never  die.  They 
stay  ;  and  in  our  cheerfullest,  most  peaceful  moments 
confront  us,  and  mock  the  new  life  we  are  leading. 
There  is  no  refuge  from  memory  and  remorse  in  this 
world.  The  spirits  of  our  foolish  deeds  haunt  us,  with 
or  without  repentance."  He  turned  again  from  me  and 
set  a  sombre  face  towards  the  ravine. 

"  Roscoe,"  I  said,  taking  his  arm  in  mine,  "  I  can't 
believe  that  you  have  any  sin  on  your  conscience  so  dark 


152  MRS.    FALCHION. 

that  penitence   can't  wipe  out,  that   is   not   wiped   out 
now." 

"  God  bless  you  for  your  confidence.  But  there  is  one 
woman,  who,  I  fear,  could,  if  she  would,  disgrace  me 
before  the  world.  You  understand,"  he  added,  "that 
there  are  things  we  repent  of  which  cannot  be  repaired. 
One  thinks  a  sin  is  dead,  and  starts  upon  a  new  life* 
locking  up  the  past,  not  deceitfully,  but  believing  that 
the  book  is  closed,  and  that  no  good  can  come  of  pub- 
lishing it ;  when  suddenly  it  all  flames  out  like  the  letters 
in  Faust's  book  of  conjurations." 

"Wait,"  I  said.  "You  need  not  tell  me  more,  you 
must  not — now  ;  not  until  there  is  any  danger.  Keep 
your  secret.  If  the  woman — if  that  woman — ever  places 
you  in  danger,  then  tell  me  all.  But  keep  it  to  yourself 
now.     And  don't  fret  because  you  have  had  dreams." 

"  Well,  as  you  wish,"  he  replied  after  a  long  time. 

As  he  sat  in  silence,  I  smoking  hard,  and  he  buried  in 
thought,  I  heard  the  laughter  of  people  some  distance 
below  us  in  the  hills.  I  guessed  it  to  be  some  tourists 
from  the  summer  hotel  lately  built  in  the  hills  not  far 
away.  The  voices  came  nearer.  A  singular  thought 
occurred  to  me.  I  looked  at  Roscoe.  I  saw  that  he  was 
brooding,  and  not  noticing  the  voices  which  presently 
died  away.  This  was  a  relief  to  me.  We  were  then 
silent  again. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    WHIRLIGIG    OF    TIME. 

Next  day  we  had  a  picnic  on  the  Whi-Whi  River* 
which,  rising  in  the  far  north,  comes  in  varied  moods  to 

*  A  note  in  Dr.  Marmion's  MSS.  says  that  he  has  purposely  changed 
the  names  of  the  rivers  and  towns  mentioned  in  the  second  part  of  the 
book,  because  he  did  not  wish  the  locale  to  be  too  definite.— G.  P. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  153 

join  the  Long  Cloud  River  at  Viking.  Ruth  Devlin,  her 
young  sister,  and  her  aunt  Mrs.  Revel,  with  Gait  Roscoe 
and  myself,  constituted  the  party.  The  first  part  of  the 
excursion  had  many  delights.  The  morning  was  fresh 
and  sweet,  and  we  were  all  in  excellent  spirits.  Roscoe's 
depression  had  vanished.  But  there  was  an  amiable 
seriousness  in  his  manner  which,  to  me,  portended  that 
the  faint  roses  in  Ruth  Devlin's  cheeks  would  deepen 
before  the  day  was  done,  unless  something  inopportune 
happened. 

As  we  trudged  gaily  up  the  canon  to  the  spot  where  we 
were  to  take  a  big  skiff,  and  cross  the  Whi-Whi  to  our 
camping-ground,  Ruth  Devlin,  who  was  walking  with  me,' 
said  :  "  A  large  party  of  tourists  arrived  at  Viking  yes- 
terday, and  have  gone  to  the  summer  hotel.  So  I  expect 
you  will  be  gay  up  here  for  some  time  to  come.  Pre- 
pare, then,  to  rejoice." 

"  Don't  you  think  it  is  gay  enough  as  it  is  ? "  I  an- 
swered.    "  Behold  this  festive  throng." 

"  Oh,  it  is  nothing  to  what  there  might  be  !  This  could 
never  make  Viking  and  '  surrounding  country  '  notorious 
as  a  pleasure-resort.  To  attract  tourists  you  must  have 
enough  people  to  make  romances  and  tragedies, — with- 
out loss  of  life,  of  course,— merely  catastrophes  of  broken 
hearts,  and  hair-breadth  escapes,  and  mammoth  fishing 
and  shooting  achievements,  such  as  men  know  how — to 
invent," — it  was  delightful  to  hear  her  voice  soften  to  an 
amusing  suggestiveness — "  and  broken  bridges  and  land- 
slides, with  many  other  things  which  you  can  supply,  Dr. 
Marmion.  No,  I'm  afraid  that  Viking  is  too  hum-drum 
to  be  notable." 

She  laughed  then  very  lightly  and  quaintly.  She  had 
a  rare  sense  of  humor. 

"  Well,  but,  Miss  Devlin,"  said  I,  "  you  cannot  have  all 
things  at  once.  Climaxes  like  these  take  time  We  have 
a  few  joyful  things.     We  have  splendid  fishing  achieve- 


*54 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


ments  ;— please  don't  forget  that  basket  of  trout  I  sent 
you  the  other  morning  ; — and  broken  hearts  and  such 
tragedies  are  not  impossible  ;  as,  for  instance,  if  I  do  not 
send  you  as  good  a  basket  of  trout  to-morrow  evening  ; 
or  if   you  should  remark  that   there  was  nothing  in  a 

basket  of  trout  to " 

"Now,"  she  said,  "you  are  becoming  involved  and — 
inconsiderate.     Remember,  I  am  only  a  mountain  girl." 

"Then  let  us  only  talk  of  the  other  tragedies.  But 
aren't  you  a  little  callous  to  speak  of  such  things  as  if 
you  thirsted  for  their  occurrence  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  rather  silly,"  she  replied.  "  You 
see,  some  of  the  land  up  here  belongs  to  me.  I  am 
anxious  that  it  should  'boom,' — that  is  the  correct  term, 
isn't  it? — and  a  sensation  is  good  for  'booming.'  What 
an  advertisement  would  ensue,  if  the  lovely  daughter  of 
an  American  millionaire  should  be  in  danger  of  drown- 
ing in  the  Long  Cloud,  and  a  rough  but  honest  fellow — 
a  foreman  on  the  river,  maybe  a  young  member  of  the 
English  aristocracy  in  disguise — perilled  his  life  for  her. 
The  place  of  peril  would  of  course  be  named  Lover's 
Eddy,  or  the  Maiden's  Gate  ;— very  much  prettier,  I 
assure  you,  than  such  cold-blooded  things  as  the  Devil's 
Slide  where  we  are  going  now  ;  and  much  more  attrac- 
tive to  tourists." 

"  Miss  Devlin,"  laughed  I,  "you  have  all  the  eagerness 
of  the  incipient  millionaire.  May  I  hope  to  see  you  in 
Lombard  street  some  day,  a  very  Katherine  among  capi- 
talists :  for,  from  these  remarks  of  yours  I  judge  that 
you  would  (I  say  it  pensively)  '  wade  through  slaughter 
to  a  throne.'" 

Gait  Roscoe,  who  was  just  ahead  with  Mrs.  Revel  and 
Amy  Devlin,  turned  and  said  :  "  Who  is  that  quoting  so 
dramatically  ?  Now,  this  is  a  picnic  party,  and  any  one 
who  introduces  elegies,  epics,  sonnets,  'and  such,'  is 
guilty  of  breaking  the  peace  at  Viking  and  its  environs. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  155 

Besides,  such  things  should  always  be  left  to  the  parson. 
He  mustn't  be  outflanked,  his  thunder  mustn't  be  stolen. 
The  scientist  has  unlimited  resources  ;  all  he  has  to  do, 
is  to  be  vague,  and  look  prodigious  :  but  the  parson 
must  have  his  poetry  as  a  monopoly,  or  where  is  he  ? " 

"  Then,"  said  I,  "  I  shall  leave  you  to  deal  with  Miss 
Devlin  yourself,  because  she  is  the  direct  cause  of  my 
wrong-doing.  She  has  expressed  the  most  sinister  senti- 
ments about  Viking  and  your  very  extensive  parish. 
Miss  Devlin,"  I  added,  turning  to  her,  "  I  leave  you  to 
your  fate,  and  I  cannot  recommend  you  to  mercy,  for 
what  Heaven  made  fair,  should  remain  tender  and  merci- 
ful, and " 

"  So  young  and  so  untender  !  "  she  interjected  with  a 
rippling  laugh.  "  Yet  Cordelia  was  misjudged  very 
wickedly  and  traduced  very  ungallantly,  and  so  am  I. 
And  I  bid  you  good-day,  sir." 

Her  delicate  laugh  rings  in  my  ears  as  I  write.  I  think 
that  sun,  and  clear  skies  and  hills,  go  far  to  make  us 
cheerful  and  harmonious.  Somehow,  I  always  remember 
her  as  she  was  that  morning. 

She  was  standing  then  on  the  brink  of  a  new  and  beau- 
tiful experience,  at  the  threshold  of  an  acknowledged  love. 
And  that  is  a  remarkable  time  to  the  young. 

There  was  something  thrilling  about  the  experiences 
of  that  morning,  and  I  think  we  all  felt  it.  Even  the 
great  frowning  precipices  seemed  to  have  lost  their  ordi- 
nary gloom,  and  when  some  young  white  eagles  rose 
from  a  crag  and  flew  away,  growing  smaller  as  they 
passed,  until  they  were  one  with  the  snow  of  the  glacier 
on  Mount  Trinity  ;  or  a  wapiti  peeped  out  from  the 
underwood  and  stole  away  with  glancing  feet  down  the 
valley ;  we  could  scarcely  refrain  from  doing  some  fool- 
ish thing  out  of  sheer  delight.  At  length  we  emerged 
from  a  thicket  of  Douglas  pine  upon  the  shore  of  the 
Whi-Whi,  and,  loosening   our  boat,  were  soon    moving 


156  MRS.    FALCHION. 

slowly  on  the  cool  current.  For  an  hour  or  more  we 
rowed  down  the  river  towards  the  Long  Cloud,  and 
then  drew  into  the  shade  of  a  little  island  for  lunch. 
When  we  came  to  the  rendezvous,  where  picnic  parties 
generally  feasted,  we  found  a  fire  still  smoking  and  the 
remnants  of  a  lunch  scattered  about.  A  party  of  pic- 
nickers had  evidently  been  there  just  before  us.  Ruth 
suggested  that  it  might  be  some  of  the  tourists  from 
the  hotel.     This  seemed  very  probable. 

There  were  scraps  of  newspaper  on  the  ground,  and 
among  them  was  an  empty  envelope.  Mechanically  I 
picked  it  up,  and  read  the  superscription.  What  I  saw 
there  I  did  not  think  necessary  to  disclose  to  the  other 
members  of  the  party  ;  but,  as  unconcernedly  as  possible, 
— for  Ruth  Devlin's  eyes  were  on  me — I  used  it  to  light 
a  cigar, — inappropriately,  for  lunch  would  soon  be 
ready. 

"What  was  the  name  on  the  envelope  ?"  she  said.— 
"  Was  there  one  ?  " 

I  guessed  she  had  seen  my  slight  start.  I  said  eva- 
sively :  "  I  fancy  there  was,  but  a  man  who  is  immensely 
interested  in  a  new  brand  of  cigar " 

"  You  are  a  very  deceitful  man,"  she  said.  "  And,  at 
the  least,  you  are  selfish  to  hold  your  cigar  as  more  im- 
portant than  a  woman's  curiosity.  Who  can  tell  what 
romance  was  in  the  address  on  that  envelope " 

"  What  elements  of  noble  tragedy,  what  advertise- 
ment for  a  certain  property  in  the  Whi-Whi  Valley,"  in- 
terrupted Roscoe,  breaking  off  the  thread  of  a  sailor's 
song  he  was  humming  as  he  tended  the  water-kettle  on 
the  fire. 

This  said,  he  went  on  with  the  song  again.  I  was 
struck  by  the  wonderful  change  in  him  now.  Presenti- 
ments were  far  from  him,  yet  I,  having  read  that  enve- 
lope, knew  that  they  were  not  without  cause.  Indeed  I 
had  an  inkling  of  that  the  night  before,  when  I  heard  the 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


!57 


voices  on  the  hill.  Ruth  Devlin  stopped  for  a  moment 
in  the  preparations  to  ask  Roscoe  what  he  was  hum- 
ming. I,  answering  for  him,  told  her  that  it  was  an  old 
sentimental  sea-song  of  common  sailors,  often  sung  by 
officers  at  their  jovial  gatherings.  At  this  she  pretended 
to  look  shocked,  and  straightway  demanded  to  hear  the 
words,  so  that  she  could  pronounce  judgment  on  her 
spiritual  pastor  and  master. 

He  good-naturedly  said  that  many  of  these  old  sailor 
songs  were  amusing,  and  that  he  often  found  himself 
humming  them.  To  this  I  could  testify,  and  he  sang 
them  very  well  indeed — quietly  but  with  the  rolling  tone 
of  the  sailor,  jovial  yet  fascinating.  At  our  united  re- 
quest his  humming  became  distinct.  Three  of  the  verses 
I  give  here  : — 

"  The  Lovely  Jane  went  sailing  clown 
To  anchor  at  the  Spicy  Isles  ; 
And  the  wind  was  fair  as  ever  was  blown, 
For  the  matter  of  a  thousand  miles. 

"  Then  a  storm  arose  as  she  crossed  the  line, 
Which  it  caused  her  masts  to  crack  ; 
And  she  gulped  her  fill  of  the  whooping  brine, 
And  she  likewise  sprained  her  back. 

"  And  the  Capting  cried,  '  If  it's  Davy  Jones, 
Then  it's  Davy  Jones,'  says  he  ; 
'  Though  I  don't  aspire  to  leave  my  bones 
In  the  equatorial  sea.'  " 

What  the  further  history  of  the  Lovely  Jane  was,  we 
were  not  informed,  for  Ruth  Devlin  announced  that  the 
song  must  wait,  though  it  appeared  to  be  innocuous  and 
child-like  in  its  sentiments,  and  that  lunch  would  be 
served  between  the  acts  of  the  touching  tragedy.  When 
lunch  was  over,  and  we  had  again  set  forth  upon  the  Whi- 
Whi,  I  asked  Ruth  to  sing  an  old  French-Canadian  song 
which  she  had  once  before  sung  to  us.     Many  a  time 


158  MRS.    FALCHION. 

the  woods  of  the  west  had  resounded  to  the  notes  of  En 
Roulant  ma  Boule,  as  the  voyageurs  traversed  the  long 
paths  of  the  Ottawa,  St.  Lawrence,  and  Mississippi  ; 
brave  light-hearted  fellows,  whose  singing  days  were  over. 
By  the  light  of  coming  events  there  was  something 
weird  and  pathetic  in  this  Arcadian  air,  sung  as  it  was 
by  her.  Her  voice  was  a  mezzo-soprano  of  rare  bracing 
quality,  and  she  had  enough  natural  sensibility  to  give 
the  antique  refinement  of  the  words  a  wistful  charm 
particularly  apparent  in  these  verses  : — 

"  Ah  cruel  Prince,  my  heart  you  break, 
In  killing  thus  my  snow-white  drake. 

"  My  snow-white  drake,  my  love,  my  King, 
The  crimson  life-blood  stains  his  wing. 

"  His  golden  bill  sinks  on  his  breast, 
His  plumes  go  floating  east  and  west — 

"  En  roulant  ma  boule  : 
Rouli,  roulant,  ma  boule  roulant, 
En  roulant  ma  boule  roulant, 
En  roulant  ma  boule  !  " 

As  she  finished  the  song  we  rounded  an  angle  in  the 
Whi-Whi.  Ahead  of  us  lay  the  Snow  Rapids,  and  the 
swift  channel  at  one  side  of  the  rapids  which,  hurrying 
through  a  rocky  archway,  was  known  as  the  Devil's 
Slide.  There  was  one  channel  through  the  rapids  by 
which  it  was  perfectly  safe  to  pass,  but  that  sweep  of 
water  through  the  Devil's  Slide  was  sometimes  a  trap 
of  death  to  even  the  most  expert  rivermen.  A  half-mile 
below  the  rapids  was  the  confluence  of  the  two  rivers. 
The  sight  of  the  tumbling  mass  of  white  water  and  the 
gloomy  and  colossal  grandeur  of  the  Devil's  Slide,  a 
buttress  of  the  hills,  was  very  fine  indeed. 

But  there  was  more  than  scenery  to  interest  us  here, 
for,  moving  quickly  towards  the  Slide,  was  a  boat  with 


MRS.    FALCHION.  159 

three  people  in  it.  They  were  evidently  intending  to 
attempt  that  treacherous  passage,  which  culminated  in  a 
series  of  eddies,  a  menace  to  even  the  best  oarsmanship. 
They  certainly  were  not  aware  of  their  danger,  for  there 
came  over  the  water  the  sound  of  a  man's  laughing  voice, 
and  the  two  women  in  the  boat  were  in  unconcerned 
attitudes.  Roscoe  shouted  to  them  and  motioned  them 
back,  but  they  did  not  appear  to  understand. 

The  man  waved  his  hat  to  us,  and  rowed  on.  There 
was  but  one  thing  for  us  to  do  :  to  make  the  passage 
quickly  through  the  safe  channel  of  the  rapids,  and  to  be 
of  what  service  we  could  on  the  other  side  of  the  Slide 
if  necessary.  We  bent  to  the  oars,  and  the  boat  shot 
through  the  water.  Ruth  held  the  rudder  firmly,  and 
her  young  sister  and  Mrs.  Revel  sat  perfectly  still.  But 
the  man  in  the  other  boat,  thinking,  doubtless,  that  we 
were  attempting  a  race,  added  his  efforts  to  the  current 
of  the  channel.  I  am  afraid  that  I  said  some  words 
below  my  breath,  scarcely  proper  to  be  spoken  in  the 
presence  of  maidens  and  a  clerk  in  holy  orders.  Ros- 
coe was  here,  however,  a  hundred  times  more  sailor  than 
parson.  He  spoke  in  low  firm  tones,  as  he  now  and 
then  suggested  a  direction  to  Ruth  Devlin  or  myself. 
Our  boat  tossed  and  plunged  in  the  rapids,  and  the 
water  washed  over  us  lightly  once  or  twice,  but  we  went 
through  the  passage  safely,  and  had  turned  towards  the 
Slide  before  the  other  boat  got  to  the  rocky  archway. 

We  rowed  hard.  The  next  minute  was  one  of  sus- 
pense, for  we  saw  the  boat  shoot  beneath  the  archway. 
Presently  it  emerged,  a  whirling  plaything  in  treacherous 
eddies.  The  man  wildly  waved  his  arm,  and  shouted  to 
us.  The  women  were  grasping  the  sides  of  the  boat,  but 
making  no  outcry.  We  could  not  see  the  faces  of  the 
women  plainly  yet.  The  boat  ran  forward  like  a  race- 
horse ;  it  plunged  hither  and  thither.  An  oar  snapped 
in  the  rocks  and  the  other  one  shot  from  the  man's  hand. 


l6o  MRS.    FALCHION. 

Now  the  boat  swung  round  and  round  and  dipped  towards 
the  hollow  of  a  whirlpool.  When  we  were  within  a  few 
rods  of  them,  it  appeared  to  rise  from  the  water,  was 
hurled  on  a  rock,  and  overturned.  Mrs.  Revel  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands,  and  Ruth  gave  a  little  groan,  but 
she  held  the  rudder  firmly,  as  we  swiftly  approached 
the  forms  struggling  in  the  water.  All,  fortunately,  had 
grasped  the  swamped  boat,  and  were  being  carried  down 
the  stream  towards  us.  The  man  was  caring  resolutely 
for  himself,  but  one  of  the  women  had  her  arm  round 
the  other,  supporting  her.  We  brought  our  skiff  close  to 
the  swirling  current.  I  called  out  words  of  encourage- 
ment, and  was  preparing  to  jump  into  the  water,  when 
Roscoe  exclaimed  in  a  husky  voice  :  "  Marmion,  it  is 
Mrs.  Falchion  !  " 

Yes,  it  was  Mrs.  Falchion  ;  but  I  had  known  that 
before.  We  heard  her  words  to  her  companion  :  "  Jus- 
tine, do  not  look  so.  Your  face  is  like  death.  It  is 
hateful." 

Then  the  craft  veered  towards  the  smoother  water 
where  we  were.  This  was  my  opportunity.  Roscoe 
threw  me  a  rope,  and  I  plunged  in  and  swam  towards 
the  boat.  I  saw  that  Mrs.  Falchion  recognized  me.  But 
she  made  no  exclamation,  nor  did  Justine  Caron.  Their 
companion,  however,  on  the  other  side  of  the  boat,  was 
eloquent  in  prayers  to  be  rescued.  I  caught  the  bow  of 
the  boat  as  it  raced  past  me,  and  with  all  my  strength 
swung  it  towards  the  smoother  water.  I  ran  the  rope  I 
had  brought  through  the  iron  ring  at  the  bow ;  and  was 
glad  enough  of  that ;  for  their  lives  perhaps  depended 
on  being  able  to  do  it.  It  had  been  a  nice  calculation 
of  chances,  but  it  was  done.  Roscoe  immediately  bent 
to  the  oars,  I  threw  an  arm  around  Justine,  and  in  a 
moment  Roscoe  had  towed  us  into  safer  quarters.  Then 
he  drew  in  the  rope.  As  he  did  so  Mrs.  Falchion  said  : 
"  Justine  would  drown  so  easily  if  one  would  let  her." 


MRS.    FALCHION.  IQi 

These  were  her  first  words  to  me.  I  am  sure  I  never 
can  sufficiently  admire  the  mere  courage  of  the  woman 
and  her  presence  of  mind  in  danger.  Immediately  after- 
wards she  said— and  subsequently  it  seemed  to  me  mar- 
vellous— "  You  are  something  more  than  the  chorus  to 
the  play  this  time,  Dr.  Marmion." 

A  minute  after,  and  Justine  was  dragged  into  our  boat, 
and  was  followed  by  Mrs.  Falchion,  whose  first  words  to 
Roscoe  were  :  "  It  is  not  such  a  meeting  as  one  would 
plan." 

And  he  replied  :  '4  am  glad  no  harm  has  come  to  you. " 

The  man  was  duly  helped  in.  A  poor  creature  he  was, 
to  pass  from  this  tale  as  he  entered  it,  ignominiously,  and 
finally,  here.  I  even  hide  his  nationality,  for  his  race  are 
generally  more  gallant.  But  he  was  wealthy,  had  an  in- 
tense admiration  for  Mrs.  Falchion,  and  had  managed 
to  secure  her  in  his  boat,  to  separate  from  the  rest  of 
the  picnic  party, — chiefly  through  his  inefficient  rowing. 

Dripping  with  water  as  Mrs.  Falchion  was,  she  did  not, 
strange  to  say,  appear  at  serious  disadvantage.  Almost 
any  other  woman  would  have  done  so.  She  was  a  little 
pale,  she  must  have  felt  miserable,  but  she  accepted  Ruth 
Devlin's  good  offices  (as  did  Justine  Caron  those  of  Mrs. 
Revel)  with  much  self-possession,  scanning  her  face 
and  form  critically  the  while,  and  occasionally  turning  a 
glance  on  Roscoe,  who  was  now  cold  and  impassive.  I 
never  knew  a  man  who  could  so  banish  expression  from 
his  countenance  when  necessary.  Speaking  to  Belle  Tre- 
herne  long  afterwards  of  Mrs.  Falchion's  self-possessed 
manner  on  this  occasion,  and  of  how  she  rose  superior  to 
the  situation,  I  was  told  that  I  must  have  regarded  the 
thing  poetically  and  dramatically,  for  no  woman  could 
possibly  look  self-possessed  in  draggled  skirts.  She 
said  that  I  always  magnified  certain  of  Mrs.  Falchion's 
qualities. 

That  may  be  so,  and  yet  it  must  be  remembered  that  I 


162  MRS.    FALCHION. 

was  not  predisposed  towards  her,  and  that  I  wished  her 
well  away  from  where  Roscoe  was. 

As  for  Justine  Caron,  she  lay  with  her  head  on  Mrs. 
Revel's  lap,  and  looked  from  beneath  heavy  eyelids  at 
Roscoe  with  such  gratitude  and — but,  no,  she  is  only  a 
subordinate  in  the  story,  and  not  a  chief  factor,  and  what 
she  said  or  did  here  is  of  no  vital  consequence  at  this 
moment !  We  rowed  to  a  point  near  the  confluence  cf 
the  two  rivers,  where  we  could  leave  our  boats  to  be  poled 
back  through  the  rapids  or  portaged  past  them. 

On  the  way  Mrs.  Falchion  said  to  Roscoe  :  "  I  knew 
you  were  somewhere  in  the  Rockies  ;  and  at  Vancouver, 
when  I  came  from  San  Francisco,  I  heard  of  your  being 
here.  I  had  intended  spending  a  month  somewhere  in 
the  mountains,  so  I  came  to  Viking  and  on  to  the  summer 
hotel  :  but  really  this  is  too  exciting  for  recreation." 

This  was  spoken  with  almost  gay  outward  manner,  but 
there  was  a  note  in  her  words  which  I  did  not  like,  nor 
did  I  think  that  her  eye  was  very  kind,  especially  when 
she  looked  at  Ruth  Devlin,  and  afterwards  at  Roscoe. 

We  had  several  miles  to  go,  and  it  was  nightfall — for 
which  Mrs.  Falchion  expressed  herself  as  profoundly 
grateful — when  we  arrived  at  the  hotel.  Our  parting 
words  were  as  brief  as,  of  necessity,  they  had  been  on 
our  journey  through  the  mountains,  for  the  ladies  had 
ridden  the  horses  which  we  had  sent  over  for  ourselves 
from  Viking;  and  we  men  walked  in  front.  Besides,  the 
thoughts  of  some  of  us  were  not  at  all  free  from  mis- 
giving. The  spirit  possessing  Roscoe  the  night  before 
seemed  to  enter  into  all  of  us,  even  into  Mrs.  Fal- 
chion, who  had  lost,  somewhat,  the  aplomb  with  which 
she  had  held  the  situation  in  the  boat.  But  at  the 
door  of  the  hotel  she  said  cheerfully  :  "  Of  course,  Dr. 
Marmion  will  find  it  necessary  to  call  on  his  patients 
to-morrow,  and — the  clergyman,  also,  on  his  new  parish- 
ioners." 


MRS.    FALCHION.  163 

The  reply  was  left  to  me.  I  said  gravely  :  "  Let  us 
be  thankful  that  both  doctor  and  clergyman  are  called 
upon  to  use  their  functions  ;  it  might  easily  have  been 
only  the  latter." 

"Oh,  do  not  be  funereal  !  "  she  replied.  "  I  knew  that 
we  were  not  to  drown  at  the  Devil's  Slide.  The  drama 
isn't  ended  yet,  and  the  chief  actors  cannot  go  until  'the 
curtain.' — Though  I  am  afraid  that  is  not  quite  ortho- 
dox, is  it,  Mr.  Roscoe  ?  " 

Roscoe  looked  at  her  gravely.  "  It  may  not  be  ortho- 
dox in  bald  statement,  but  it  is  orthodox,  I  fancy,  all  the 
same,  if  we  exchange  God  for  fate,  and  Providence  for 
chance.     .     .     .     Good-night." 

He  said  this  wearily.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  an 
ironical  look,  then  held  out  her  hand,  and  quickly  bade 
him  good-night.  Partings  all  round  were  made,  and 
after  some  injunctions  to  Mrs.  Falchion  and  Justine 
Caron  from  myself  as  to  preventives  against  taking  cold, 
the  rest  of  us  started  for  Sunburst. 

As  we  went,  I  could  not  help  but  contrast  Ruth  and 
Amy  Devlin,  these  two  gentle  yet  strong  mountain  girls, 
with  the  woman  we  had  left.  Their  lives  were  far  from 
that  dolorous  tide  which,  sweeping  through  a  selfish 
world,  leaves  behind  it  the  stain  of  corroding  passions  ; 
of  cruelties,  ingratitude,  hate,  and  catastrophe.  We 
are  all  ambitious,  in  one  way  or  another.  We  climb 
mountains  over  scoria  that  frays  and  lava  that  burns. 
We  try  to  call  down  the  stars,  and  when,  now  and  then, 
our  conjuring  succeeds,  we  find  that  our  stars  are  only 
blasting  meteors.  One  moral  mishap  lames  character 
forever.  A  false  start  robs  us  of  our  natural  strength, 
and  a  misplaced  or  unrighteous  love  deadens  the  soul 
and  shipwrecks  just  conceptions  of  life. 

A  man  may  be  forgiven  for  a  sin,  but  the  effect  re- 
mains ;  it  has  found  its  place  in  his  constitution,  and 
it  cannot  be  displaced  by  mere  penitence,  nor  yet  for- 


1 64  MRS.    FALCHION. 

giveness.  A  man  errs,  and  he  must  suffer ;  his  father 
erred,  and  he  must  endure  ;  or  some  one  sinned  against 
the  man,  and  he  hid  the  sin— but  here  a  hand  touched 
my  shoulder  !  I  was  startled,  for  my  thoughts  had 
been  far  away.  Roscoe's  voice  spoke  in  my  ear, — "  It 
is  as  she  said;  the  actors  come  together  for  'the  cur- 
tain.' " 

Then  his  eyes  met  those  of  Ruth  Devlin  turned  to 
him  earnestly  and  inquiringly.  And  I  felt  for  a  moment 
hard  against  Roscoe,  that  he  should,  even  indirectly  and 
involuntarily,  bring  suffering  into  her  life.  In  youth,  in 
early  manhood,  we  do  wrong.  At  the  time  we  seem  to 
be  injuring  no  one  but  ourselves  ;  but,  as  we  live  on, 
we  find  that  we  were  wronging  whomsoever  should  come 
into  our  lives  in  the  future.  At  the  instant  I  said  angrily 
to  myself  :  "  What  right  has  he  to  love  a  girl  like  that, 
when  he  has  anything  in  his  life  that  might  make  her 
unhappy  or  endanger  her  in  ever  so  little  !  " 

But  I  bit  my  tongue,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was 
Pharisaical  ;  and  I  wondered  rather  scornfully  if  I  should 
have  been  so  indignant  were  the  girl  not  so  beautiful, 
young,  and  ingenuous.  I  tried  not  to  think  further  of  this 
thing,  and  talked  much  to  Ruth, — Gait  Roscoe  walked 
with  Mrs.  Revel  and  Amy  Devlin,— but  I  found  I  could 
not  drive  it  from  my  mind.  This  was  not  unnatural, 
for  was  not  I  the  "  chorus  to  the  play  "  ? 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE    SONG    OF    THE    SAW. 

There  was  still  a  subdued  note  to  Roscoe's  manner 
the  next  morning.  He  was  pale  ;  he  talked  freely  how- 
ever of  the  affairs  of  Viking  and  Sunburst,  and  spoke  of 
business  which  called  him  to  Mr.  Devlin's  great  saw-mill 


MRS.    FALCHION.  16$ 

that  day.  A  few  moments  after  breakfast  we  were  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway.     "  Well,"  he  said,  "shall  we  go?  " 

I  was  not  quite  sure  where  he  meant  to  go,  but  I  took 
my  hat  and  joined  him.  I  wondered  if  it  would  be  to 
the  summer  hotel  or  the  great  mill.  My  duty  lay  in 
the  direction  of  the  hotel.  When  we  stepped  out  he 
added  :  "  Let  us  take  the  bridle-path  along  the  edge  of 
the  ravine  to  the  hotel." 

The  morning  was  beautiful.  The  atmosphere  of  the 
woods  was  of  soft,  diffusive  green — the  sunlight  filtering 
through  the  transparent  leaves.  Bowers  of  delicate  ferns 
and  vines  flanked  the  path,  and  an  occasional  clump  of 
giant  cedars  invited  us  :  the  world  was  eloquent. 

Several  tourists  upon  the  veranda  of  the  hotel  remarked 
us  with  curiosity  as  we  entered.  A  servant  said  that 
Mrs.  Falchion  would  be  glad  to  see  us  ;  and  we  were 
ushered  into  her  sitting-room.  There  was  no  trace  of 
yesterday's  misadventure  about  her.  She  appeared 
superbly  well.  And  yet,  when  I  looked  again,  when  I 
had  time  to  think  upon  and  observe  detail,  I  saw  signs 
of  change.  There  was  excitement  in  the  eyes,  and  a 
slight  nervous  darkness  beneath  them,  which  added  to 
their  charm.  She  rose  smiling,  and  said  :  "  I  fear  I  am 
hardly  entitled  to  this  visit,  for  I  am  beyond  convales- 
cence, and  Justine  is  not  in  need  of  shrift  or  diagnosis, 
as  you  see." 

I  was  not  so  sure  of  Justine  Caron  as  she  was,  and 
when  I  had  paid  my  respects  to  her,  I  said  a  little  prig- 
gishly  (for  I  was  young),  still  not  too  solemnly, — "  I 
cannot  allow  you  to  pronounce  for  me  upon  my  patients, 
Mrs.  Falchion  ;  I  must  make  my  own  inquiries." 

But  Mrs.  Falchion  was  right.  Justine  Caron  was  not 
suffering  much  from  her  immersion  ;  though,  speaking 
professionally,  her  temperature  was  higher  than  the 
normal.  But  that  might  be  from  some  impulse  of  the 
moment,  for  Justine  was  naturally  a  little  excitable. 


l66  MRS.    FALCHION. 

We  walked  aside,  and,  looking  at  me  with  a  flush  of 
happiness  in  her  face,  she  said  :  "  You  remember  one 
day  on  the  Fulvia  when  I  told  you  that  money  was  every- 
thing to  me  ;  that  I  would  do  all  I  honorably  could  to  get 
it?" 

I  nodded.  She  continued  :  "  It  was  that  I  might  pay 
a  debt — you  know  it.  Well,  money  is  my  god  no  longer, 
for  I  can  pay  all  I  owe.  That  is,  I  can  pay  the  money, 
but  not  the  goodness,  the  noble  kindness.  He  is  most 
good,  is  he  not  ?  The  world  is  better  that  such  men  as 
Captain  Gait  Roscoe  live — ah,  you  see  I  cannot  quite 
think  of  him  as  a  clergyman.  I  wonder  if  I  ever  shall  !  " 
She  grew  suddenly  silent  and  abstracted,  and,  in  the 
moment's  pause,  some  ironical  words  in  Mrs.  Falchion's 
voice  floated  across  the  room  to  me  :  "  It  is  so  strange 
to  see  you  so.  And  you  preach  and  baptize,  and — marry, 
and  bury,  and  care  for  the  poor  and — ah,  what  is  it  ? — 
'  all  those  who,  in  this  transitory  life,  are  in  sorrow,  need, 
sickness,  or  any  other  adversity  ? '  .  .  .  And  do  you 
never  long  for  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt  ?  Never  long  for  " 
— here  her  voice  was  not  quite  so  clear — "  for  the  past, 
Gait  Roscoe  ? " 

I  was  sure  that,  whatever  she  was  doing,  he  had  been 
trying  to  keep  the  talk,  as  it  were,  on  the  surface.  I 
was  equally  sure  that,  to  her  last  question,  he  would 
make  no  reply.  Though  I  was  now  speaking  to  Justine 
Caron,  I  heard  him  say  quite  calmly  and  firmly  :  "  Yes, 
I  preach,  baptize,  marry,  and  bury,  and  do  all  I  can  for 
those  who  need  help." 

"  The  people  about  here  say  that  you  are  good  and 
charitable.  You  have  won  the  hearts  of  the  moun- 
taineers. But  you  always  had  a  gift  that  way." — I  did 
not  like  her  tone. — "  One  would  almost  think  you  had 
founded  a  new  dispensation.  And  if  I  had  drowned 
yesterday,  you  would,  I  suppose,  have  buried  me,  and 
have   preached  a  little   sermon   about  me. — You  could 


MRS.    FALCHION.  167 

have  done  that  better  than  any  one  else  !     .     .  What 

would  you  have  said  in  such  a  case  ?  " 

There  was  an  earnest,  almost  a  bitter,  protest  in  the 
reply. 

"  Pardon  me  if  I  cannot  answer  your  question.  Your 
life  was  saved,  and  that  is  all  we  have  to  consider,  except 
to  be  grateful  to  Providence.  The  duties  of  my  office 
have  nothing  to  do  with  possibilities." 

She  was  evidently  torturing  him,  and  I  longed  to  say 
a  word  that  would  torture  her.  She  continued  :  "  And 
the  flesh-pots — you  have  not  answered  about  them  :  do 
you  not  long  for  them — occasionally  ?  " 

"They  are  of  a  period,"  he  said,  "too  distant  for 
regret." 

"  And  yet,"  she  replied  softly,  "  I  fancied  sometimes 
in  London  last  year,  that  you  had  not  outgrown  that 
antique  time, — those  lotos-days." 

He  made  no  reply  at  once,  and  in  the  pause  Justine 
and  I  passed  out  to  the  veranda. 

"  How  long  does  Mrs.  Falchion  intend  remaining 
here,  Miss  Caron  ?  "  I  said. 

Her  reply  was  hesitating  :  "  I  do  not  quite  know  ;  but 
I  think  some  time.  She  likes  the  place  ;  it  seems  to 
amuse  her." 

"  And  you — does  it  amuse  you  ?  " 

"  It  does  not  matter  about  me  at  all.  I  am  Madame's 
servant  ;  but,  indeed,  it  does  not  amuse  me  particularly." 

"  Do  you  like  the  place  ?  " 

The  reply  was  somewhat  hurried,  and  she  glanced  at 
me  a  little  nervously.  "Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  "  I  like  the 
place,  but  " 

Here  Roscoe  appeared  at  the  door  and  said  :  "  Mrs. 
Falchion  wishes  to  see  Viking  and  Mr.  Devlin's  mills, 
Marmion  ;  she  will  go  with  us." 

In  a  little  time  we  were  on  our  way  to  Viking.  I 
walked  with   Mrs.  Falchion,  and   Roscoe  with  Justine. 


170  MRS.    FALCHION. 

"  How  mysterious  !  "  said  Mrs.  Falchion.  "  What 
does  it  mean  ?  I  never  saw  anything  like  that  before. 
What  a  wonderful  thing  !  " 

Roscoe  explained.  "  Up  there  in  that  hut,"  he  said, 
"  there  lives  a  man  called  Phil  Boldrick.  He  is  a  unique 
man  with  a  strange  history.  He  has  been  miner,  sailor, 
woodsman,  river-driver,  trapper,  salmon-fisher, — expert 
at  the  duties  of  each  of  these,  persistent  at  none.  He 
has  a  taste  for  the  ingenious  and  the  unusual.  For  a 
time  he  worked  in  Mr.  Devlin's  mill.  It  was  too  tame 
for  him.  He  conceived  the  idea  of  supplying  the  val- 
ley with  certain  necessaries,  by  intercepting  the  mule 
trains  as  they  passed  across  the  hills,  and  getting  them 
down  to  Viking  by  means  of  that  cable.  The  valley 
laughed  at  him ;  men  said  it  was  impossible.  He 
went  to  Mr.  Devlin  and  Mr.  Devlin  came  to  me.  I  have, 
as  you  know,  some  knowledge  of  machinery  and  engin- 
eering. I  thought  the  thing  feasible  but  expensive,  and 
told  Mr.  Devlin  so.  However,  the  ingenuity  of  the  thing 
pleased  Mr.  Devlin,  and,  with  that  singular  enterprise, 
which  in  other  directions  has  made  him  a  rich  man,  he 
determined  on  its  completion.  Between  us  we  managed 
it.  Boldrick  carries  on  his  aerial  railway  with  consider- 
able success,  as  you  see." 

"  A  singular  man,"  said  Mrs.  Falchion.  "  I  should 
like  to  see  him.  Come,  sit  down  here  and  tell  me  all 
you  know  about  him,  won't  you?" 

Roscoe  nodded,  I  arranged  a  seat  for  us,  and  we  all 
sat. 

Roscoe  was  about  to  begin  when  Mrs.  Falchion  said  : 
"  Wait  a  minute.  Let  us  take  in  this  scene  first."  We 
were  silent.  After  a  moment  I  turned  to  Mrs.  Falchion, 
and  said  :  "  It  is  beautiful,  isn't  it  ?  " 

She  drew  in  a  long  breath,  her  eyes  lighted  up,  and 
she  said  with  a  strange  abandon  of  gaiety  :  "  Yes  ;  it  is 
delightful  to  live." 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


171 


It  seemed  so,  in  spite  of  the  forebodings  of  my  friend 
and  my  own  uneasiness  concerning  him,  Ruth  Devlin,  and 
Mrs.  Falchion.  The  place  was  all  peace  :  a  very  monot- 
ony of  toil  and  pleasure.  The  heat  drained  through  the 
valley  back  and  forth  in  visible  palpitations  upon  the 
roofs  of  the  houses,  the  mills,  and  the  vast  piles  of  lum- 
ber :  all  these  seemed  breathing.  It  looked  a  busy 
Arcady.  From  beneath  us  life  vibrated  with  the  regular- 
ity of  a  pulse  :  distance  gave  a  kind  of  delighted  ease  to 
its  very  toil.     Event  was  asleep. 

But  when  I  look  back  now,  after  some  years,  at  the 
experiences  of  that  day,  I  am  astonished  by  the  running 
fire  of  events,  which,  unfortunately,  were  not  all  joy. 

As  I  write  I  can  hear  that  keen,  wild  singing  of  the 
saw,  come  to  us  distantly,  with  a  pleasant,  weird  ela- 
tion. The  big  mill  hung  above  the  river,  its  sides  all 
open,  humming  with  labor,  as  I  had  seen  it  many  a  time 
during  my  visit  to  Roscoe.  The  sun  beat  in  upon  it, 
making  a  broad  piazza  of  light  about  its  sides.  Beyond 
it  were  pleasant  shadows,  through  which  men  passed  and 
repassed  at  their  work.  Life  was  busy  all  about  it. 
Yet  the  picture  was  bold,  open,  and  strong.  Great  iron 
hands  reached  down  into  the  water,  clamped  a  massive 
log  or  huge  timber,  lightly  drew  it  up  the  slide  from  the 
water,  where,  guided  by  the  hand-spikes  of  the  men,  it 
was  laid  upon  its  cradle  and  carried  slowly  to  the  devour- 
ing teeth  of  the  saws  :  there  to  be  sliced  through  rib  and 
bone  in  moist  sandwiched  layers,  oozing  the  sweet  sap 
of  its  fibre  ;  and  carried  out  again  into  the  open  to  be 
drained  to  dry  bones  under  the  pipes  of  the  sun  :  piles 
upon  piles  ;  houses  with  wide  chinks  through  which 
the  winds  wandered,  looking  for  tenants  and  finding 
none. 

To  the  north  were  booms  of  logs,  swilling  in  the 
current,  waiting  tor  their  devourer.  Here  and  there 
were  groups  of  river-drivers  and  their  foremen,  prying 


172  MRS.    FALCHION. 

twisted  heaps  of  logs  from  the  rocks  or  the  shore  into 
the  water.  Other  groups  of  river-drivers  were  scattered 
upon  the  banks,  lifting  their  huge  red  canoes  high  up  on 
the  platforms,  the  spring's  and  summer's  work  of  river- 
driving  done  ;  while  others  lounged  upon  the  grass,  or 
wandered  lazily  through  the  village,  sporting  with  the 
Chinamen,  or  chaffing  the  Indian  idling  in  the  sun — a 
garish  figure  stoically  watching  the  inroads  of  civiliza- 
tion. The  town  itself  was  squat  but  amiable  :  small 
houses  and  large  huts ;  the  only  place  of  note  and  dignity, 
the  new  town  hall,  which  was  terribly  over-shadowed  by 
the  big  mill,  and  even  by  the  two  smaller  ones  flanking 
it  north  and  south. 

But  Viking  was  full  of  men  who  had  breathed  the 
strong  life  of  the  hills,  had  stolen  from  Nature  some  of 
her  brawny  strength  and  set  themselves  up  before  her  as 
though  a  man  were  as  great  as  a  mountain  and  as  good 
a  thing  to  see.  It  was  of  such  a  man  that  Gait  Roscoe 
was  to  tell  us.  His  own  words  I  will  not  give,  but  will 
speak  of  Phil  Boldrick  as  I  remember  him  and  as  Roscoe 
described  him  to  us. 

Of  all  the  men  in  the  valley,  none  was  so  striking  as 
Phil  Boldrick.  Of  all  faces  his  was  the  most  singular  ; 
of  all  characters  his  the  most  unique  ;  of  all  men  he  was 
the  most  unlucky,  save  in  one  thing,— the  regard  of  his 
fellows.  Others  might  lay  up  treasures,  not  he  ;  others 
lose  money  at  gambling,  not  he  ; — he  never  had  much  to 
lose.  But  yet  he  did  all  things  magniloquently.  The 
wave  of  his  hand  was  expansive,  his  stride  was  swaying 
and  decisive,  his  over-ruling,  fraternal  faculty  was  always 
in  full  swing  ;  Viking  was  his  adopted  child  ;  so  much  so 
that  a  gentleman  river-driver  called  it  Philippi,  and  by 
that  name  it  sometimes  went,  and  continues  still  so 
among  those  who  knew  it  in  the  old  days. 

Others  might  have  doubts  as  to  the  proper  course  to 
pursue  under  certain  circumstances,  it  was  not  so  with 


MRS.    FALCHION.  173 

Phil ;  they  might  argue  a  thing  out  orally,  he  did  so 
mentally,  and  gave  judgment  on  it  orally.  He  was  final 
not  oracular.  One  of  his  eyes  was  of  glass  and  blue,  the 
other  had  an  eccentricity,  and  was  of  a  deep  and  medi- 
tative grey.  It  was  a  wise  and  knowing  eye.  It  was 
trained  to  many  things  — like  one  servant  in  a  large 
family.  One  side  of  his  face  was  solemn,  because  of  the 
gay  but  unchanging  blue  eye,  the  other  was  gravely 
humorous,  shrewdly  playful.  His  fellow-citizens  re- 
spected him  ;  so  much  so,  that  they  intended  to  give  him 
an  office  in  the  new-formed  corporation  ;  which  means 
that  he  had  courage  and  downrightness,  and  that  the 
rough  straightforward  gospel  of  the  West  was  properly 
interpreted  by  him. 

If  a  stranger  came  to  the  place,  Phil  was  sent  first  to 
reconnoitre  ;  if  any  function  was  desirable,  Phil  was 
requested  to  tackle  it ;  if  justice  was  to  be  meted  out, 
Phil's  opinion  had  considerable  weight — for  he  had 
greater  leisure  time  than  other  more  prosperous  men  ;  if 
a  man  was  taken  ill  (this  was  in  the  days  before  a  doctor 
came),  Phil  was  asked  to  declare  if  he  would  "shy  from 
the  finish." 

I  heard  Roscoe  more  than  once  declare  that  Phil  was 
as  good  as  two  curates  to  him.  Not  that  Phil  was  at  all 
pious,  nor  yet  possessed  of  those  abstemious  qualities  in 
language  and  appetite,  by  which  good  men  are  known  ; 
but  he  had  a  gift  of  civic  virtue — important  in  a  wicked 
world,  and  of  unusual  importance  in  Viking.  He  had 
neither  self-consciousness  nor  fear ;  and  while  not  pos- 
sessed of  absolute  tact  in  a  social  way,  he  had  a  knack  of 
doing  the  right  thing  bluntly,  or  the  wrong  thing  with  an 
air  of  Tightness.  He  envied  no  man,  he  coveted  nothing ; 
had  once  or  twice  made  other  men's  fortunes  by  pros- 
pecting, but  was  poor  himself.  And  in  all  he  was  content, 
and  loved  life  and  Viking. 

Immediately  after  Roscoe  had  reached  the  mountains 


174  MRS.    FALCHION. 

Phil  had  become  his  champion,  declaring  that  there 
wasn't  any  reason  why  a  man  shouldn't  be  treated 
sociably  because  he  was  a  parson.  Phil  had  been  a  great 
traveller,  as  had  many  who  settled  at  last  in  these  valleys 
to  the  exciting  life  of  the  river :  salmon-catching  or 
driving  logs.  He  had  lived  for  a  time  in  Lower  Cali- 
fornia and  Mexico,  and  had  given  Roscoe  the  name  of 
The  Padre  :  which  suited  the  genius  and  temper  of  the 
rude-  population.  And  so  it  was  that  Roscoe  was  called 
The  Padre  by  every  one,  though  he  looked  little  like 
one. 

As  he  told  his  story  of  Phil's  life  I  could  not  help  but 
contrast  him  with  most  of  the  clergymen  I  knew  or  had 
seen.  He  had  the  admirable  ease  and  tact  of  a  cultured 
man  of  the  world,  and  the  frankness  and  warmth  of  a 
hearty  nature,  which  had,  however,  some  inherent  strain 
of  melancholy.  Wherever  I  had  gone  with  him  I  had 
noticed  that  he  was  received  with  good-humored  defer- 
ence by  his  rough  parishioners  and  others  who  were 
such  only  in  the  broadest  sense.  Perhaps  he  would  not 
have  succeeded  so  well  if  he  had  worn  clerical  clothes. 
As  it  was,  of  a  week  day,  he  could  not  be  distinguished 
from  any  respectable  layman.  The  clerical  uniform 
attracts  women  more  than  men,  who,  if  they  spoke  truly, 
would  resent  it.  Roscoe  did  not  wear  it,  because  he 
thought  more  of  men  than  of  function,  of  manliness  than 
clothes  ;  and  though  this  sometimes  got  him  into  trouble 
with  his  clerical  brethren  who  dearly  love  Roman  collar, 
and  colored  stole,  and  the  range  of  ritual  from  a  lofty 
intoning  to  the  eastward  position,  he  managed  to  live 
and  himself  be  none  the  worse,  while  those  who  knew 
him  were  certainly  the  better. 

When  Roscoe  had  finished  his  tale,  Mrs.  Falchion  said  : 
"  Mr.  Boldrick  must  be  a  very  interesting  man  :  "  and  her 
eyes  wandered  up  to  the  great  hole  in  the  mountain-side, 
and  lingered  there.     "  As  I  said,  I  must  meet  him,"  she 


MRS.    FALCHION.  1 75 

added;  "men  of  individuality  are  rare." — Then  :  "That 
great 'hole  in  the  wall '  is  of  course  a  natural  formation." 

"Yes,"  said  Roscoe,  "  Nature  seems  to  have  made  it 
for  Boldrick  :  he  uses  it  as  a  storehouse." 

"  Who  watches  it  while  he  is  away  ?  "  she  said.  "  There's 
no  door  to  the  place,  of  course." 

Roscoe  smiled  enigmatically.  "  Men  do  not  steal  up 
here  :  that  is  the  unpardonable  crime  ;  any  other  may 
occur  and  go  unpaid  for  ;  not  it." 

The  thought  seemed  to  strike  Mrs.  Falchion.  "  I  might 
have  known  !  "  she  said.  "  It  is  the  same  in  the  South 
Seas  among  the  natives  :  Samoans,  Tongans,  Fijians 
and  others.  You  can — as  you  know,  Mr.  Roscoe," — her 
voice  had  a  subterranean  meaning — "  travel  from  end  to 
end  of  those  places,  and,  until  the  white  man  corrupts 
them,  never  meet  with  a  case  of  stealing :  you  will  find 
them  moral  too  in  other  ways  until  the  white  man  corrupts 
them.  But  sometimes  the  white  man  pays  for  it  in  the 
end." 

Her  last  words  were  said  with  a  kind  of  dreaminess, 
as  though  they  had  no  purpose  ;  but  though  she  sat  now 
idly  looking  into  the  valley  beneath,  I  could  see  that  her 
eyes  had  a  peculiar  glance,  which  was  presently  turned 
on  Roscoe  then  withdrawn  again.  On  him  the  effect 
was  so  far  disturbing  that  he  became  a  little  pale,  but  I 
noticed  that  he  met  her  glance  unflinchingly  and  then 
looked  at  me,  as  if  to  see  in  how  far  I  had  been  affected 
by  her  speech.  I  think  I  confessed  to  nothing  in  my 
face. 

Justine  Caron  was  lost  in  the  scene  before  us.  She 
had,  I  fancy,  scarcely  heard  half  that  had  been  said. 
Roscoe  said  to  her  presently  :  "  You  like  it,  do  you 
not  ?  " 

"  Like  it !  "  she  said.  "  I  never  saw  anything  so 
wonderful." 

"And    yet   it    would    not   be    so    wonderful   without 


176  MRS.    FALCHION. 

humanity  there,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Falchion.  "  Nature  is 
never  complete  without  man.  All  that  would  be  splen- 
did without  the  mills  and  the  machinery  and  Boldrick's 
cable,  but  it  wouldn't  be  perfect  :  it  needs  man — Phil 
Boldrick  and  Company  in  the  foreground.  Nature  isn't 
happy  by  itself  :  it  is  only  brooding  and  sorrowful.  You 
remember  the  mountain  of  Talili  in  Samoa,  Mr.  Roscoe, 
and  the  valley  about  it,  how  entrancing  yet  how  melan- 
choly it  is.  It  always  seems  to  be  haunted,  for  the 
natives  never  live  in  the  valley.  There  is  a  tradition  that 
once  one  of  the  white  gods  came  down  from  heaven,  and 
built  an  altar,  and  sacrificed  a  Samoan  girl — though  no 
one  ever  knew  quite  why  :  for  there  the  tradition  ends." 

I  felt  again  that  there  was  a  hidden  meaning  in  her 
words  ;  but  Roscoe  remained  perfectly  still.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  I  was  little  by  little  getting  the  threads  of  his 
story.  That  there  was  a  native  girl ;  that  the  girl  had 
died  or  been  killed  ;  that  Roscoe  was  in  some  way — inno- 
cently I  dared  hope — connected  with  it ;  and  that  Mrs. 
Falchion  held  the  key  to  the  mystery,  I  was  certain.  That 
it  was  in  her  mind  to  use  the  mystery,  I  was  also  certain. 
But  for  what  end  I  could  not  tell.  What  had  passed 
between  them  in  London  the  previous  winter  I  did  not 
know  :  but  it  seemed  evident  that  she  had  influenced 
him  there  as  she  did  on  the  Fulvia,  had  again  lost  her 
influence,  and  was  now  resenting  the  loss,  out  of  pique 
or  anger,  or  because  she  really  cared  for  him.  It  might 
be  that  she  cared. 

She  added  after  a  moment  :  "  Add  man  to  nature,  and 
it  stops  sulking  :  which  goes  to  show  that  fallen  humanity 
is  better  than  no  company  at  all." 

She  had  an  inherent  strain  of  mockery,  of  playful 
satire,  and  she  told  me  once,  when  I  knew  her  better, 
that  her  own  suffering  always  set  her  laughing  at  herself, 
even  when  it  was  greatest.  It  was  this  characteristic 
which    made  her  conversation  very  striking,  it  was   so 


MRS.    FALCHION.  ^7 

sharply  contrasted  in  its  parts  ;  a  heartless  kind  of  satire 
set  against  the  most  serious  and  acute  statements.  One 
never  knew  when  she  would  turn  her  own  or  her  inter- 
locutor's gravity  into  mirth. 

Now  no  one  replied  immediately  to  her  remarks,  and 
she  continued:  "If  I  were  an  artist  I  should  wish  to 
paint  that  scene,  given  that  the  lights  were  not  so  bright, 
and  that  mill-machinery  not  so  sharply  defined.  There 
is  almost  too  much  lime-light,  as  it  were  ;  too  much 
earnestness  in  the  thing.  Either  there  should  be  some 
side  action  of  mirth  to  make  it  less  intense,  or  of  tra- 
gedy to  render  it  less  photographic  ;  and,  unless,  Dr. 
Marmion,  you  would  consent  to  be  solemn,  which  would 
indeed  be  droll  ;  or  that  The  Padre  there— how  amusing 
they  should  call  him  that  !— should  cease  to  be  serious, 
which,  so  very  unusual,  would  be  tragic,  I  don't  know 
how  we  are  to  tell  the  painter  that  he  has  missed  a  chance 
of  immortalizing  himself." 

Roscoe  said  nothing,  but  smiled  at  her  wit,  while  he 
deprecated  her  remarks  by  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

I  also  was  silent  for  a  moment  ;  for  there  had  come  to 
my  mind,  while  she  was  speaking  and  I  was  watching  the 
scene,  something  that  Hungerford  had  said  to  me  once 
on  board  the  Fulvia.  "  Marmion,"  said  he,  "  when 
everything  at  sea  appears  so  absolutely  beautiful  and 
honest  that  it  thrills  you,  and  you're  itching  to  write 
poetry,  look  out.  There's  trouble  ahead.  It's  only  the 
pretty  pause  in  the  happy  scene  of  the  play  before  the 
villain  comes  in  and  tumbles  things  about.  When  I've 
been  on  the  bridge,"  he  continued,  "of  a  night  that  set 
my  heart  thumping,  I  knew  by  Jingo  !  it  was  the  devil 
playing  his  silent  overture. — (Don't  you  take  in  the 
twaddle  about  God  sending  thunderbolts  ;  it's  that  old 
war-horse  down  below.)  And  then  I've  kept  a  sharp 
lookout,  for  I  knew  as  right  as  rain,  that  a  company  of 
waterspouts  would  be  walking  down  on  us,  or  a  hurricane 


178  MRS.    FALCHION. 

racing  to  catch  us  broadsides.  And  what's  gospel  for  sea 
is  good  for  land,  and  you'll  find  it  so,  my  son." 

I  was  possessed  of  the  same  feeling  now,  as  I  looked 
at  the  scene  before  us,  and  I  suppose  I  seemed  moody, 
for,  immediately  Mrs.  Falchion  said  :  "  Why,  now,  my 
words  have  come  true  ;  the  scene  can  be  made  perfect. 
Pray  step  down  to  the  valley,  Dr.  Marmion,  and  com- 
plete the  situation,  for  you  are  trying  to  seem  serious, 
and  it  is  irresistibly  amusing — and  professional,  I  sup- 
pose ;  one  mustn't  forget  that  you  teach  the  young 
'saw-bones'  how  to  saw." 

I  was  piqued,  annoyed.  I  said,  though  I  admit  it 
was  not  cleverly  said  :  "  Mrs.  Falchion,  I  am  willing  to 
go  and  complete  that  situation  if  you  will  go  with  me  ; 
for  you  would  provide  the  tragedy — plenty  of  it  ;  there 
would  be  the  full  perihelion  of  elements  ;  your  smile 
is  the  incarnation  of  the  serious." 

She  looked  at  me  full  in  the  eyes.  "  Now  that,"  she 
said,  "is  a  very  good  quid  pro  quo — is  that  right  ?— and 
I  have  no  doubt  that  it  is  more  or  less  true  ;  and  for  a 
doctor  to  speak  truth,  and  a  professor  to  be  understood, 
is  a  matter  for  angels.  And  I  actually  believe,  that  in 
time,  you  will  be  free  from  priggishness,  and  become  a 
very  smart  conversationalist  ;  and  — suppose  we  wander 
on  to  our  proper  places  in  the  scene.  .  .  .  Besides, 
I  want  to  see  that  strange  man,  Mr.  Boldrick." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    PATH    OF    THE   EAGLE. 

We  travelled  slowly  down  the  hillside  into  the  village, 
and  were  about  to  turn  towards  the  big  mill  when  we 
saw  Mr.  Devlin  and  Ruth  riding  towards  us.  We  halted 
and  waited  for  them.     Mr.   Devlin  was   introduced   to 


MRS.    FALCHION.  1 79 

Mrs.  Falchion  by  his  daughter,  who  was  sweetly  solicit- 
ous concerning  Mrs.  Falchion  and  Justine  Caron,  and 
surprised  at  finding  them  abroad  after  the  alarming  acci- 
dent of  the  day  before.  Ruth  said  that  her  father  and 
herself  had  just  come  from  the  summer  hotel,  where 
they  had  gone  to  call  upon  Mrs.  Falchion.  Mrs.  Falchion 
heartily  acknowledged  the  courtesy.  She  seemed  to  be 
playing  no  part,  but  was  apparently  grateful  all  round  : 
yet  I  believe  that  even  already  Ruth  had  caught  at  some- 
thing in  her  presence  threatening  Roscoe's  peace  ;  while 
she,  from  the  beginning,  had,  with  her  more  trained 
instincts,  seen  the  relations  between  the  clergyman  and 
his  young  parishioner. — But  what  had  that  to  do  with 
her? 

Between  Roscoe  and  Ruth  there  was  the  slightest  con- 
straint, and  I  thought  that  it  gave  a  troubled  look  to  the 
face  of  the  girl.  Involuntarily  the  eyes  of  both  were 
attracted  to  Mrs.  Falchion.  I  believe  in  that  moment 
there  was  a  kind  of  revelation  among  the  three.  While 
I  talked  to  Mr.  Devlin  I  watched  them,  standing  a  little 
apart,  Justine  Caron  with  us.  It  must  have  been  a  pain- 
ful situation  for  them  :  to  the  young  girl  because  a 
shadow  was  trailing  across  the  light  of  her  first  love  ; 
to  Roscoe  because  the  shadow  came  out  of  his  past ;  to 
Mrs.  Falchion  because  she  was  the  shadow. 

I  felt  that  trouble  was  at  hand.  In  this  trouble  I  knew 
that  I  was  to  play  a  part  ;  for,  if  Roscoe  had  his  secret 
and  Mrs.  Falchion  had  the  key  to  it,  I  also  held  a  secret 
which,  in  case  of  desperate  need,  I  should  use.  I  did  not 
wish  to  use  it,  for  though  it  was  mine  it  was  also  another's. 
I  did  not  like  the  look  in  Mrs.  Falchion's  eyes  as  she 
glanced  at  Ruth  :  I  was  certain  that  she  resented  Ros- 
coe's regard  for  Ruth  and  Ruth's  regard  for  Roscoe  ; 
but,  up  to  that  moment,  I  had  not  thought  it  possible 
that  she  cared  for  him  deeply.  Once  she  had  influenced 
me,  but  she  had  never  cared  for  me. 


l8o  MRS.    FALCHION. 

I  could  see  a  change  in  her.  Out  of  it  came  that 
glance  at  Ruth,  which  seemed  to  me  the  talon-like  hatred 
that  shot  from  the  eyes  of  Goneril  and  Regan  :  and  I 
was  sure  that  if  she  loved  Roscoe,  there  would  be  mad 
trouble  for  him  and  for  the  girl.  Heretofore  she  had 
been  passionless,  but  there  was  a  dormant  power  in  her 
which  had  only  to  be  wickedly  aroused  to  wreck  her  own 
and  others'  happiness.  Hers  was  one  of  those  volcanic 
natures,  defying  calculation  and  ordinary  conceptions 
of  life  ;  having  the  fullest  capacity  for  all  the  elementary 
passions, — hatred,  love,  cruelty,  delight,  loyalty,  revolt, 
jealousy.  Mrs.  Falchion  had  never  from  her  birth  until 
now  felt  love  for  any  one.  She  had  never  been  awakened. 
Even  her  affection  for  her  father  had  been  dutiful  rather 
than  instinctive.  She  had  provoked  love,  but  had  never 
given  it.  She  had  been  self-centred,  compulsive,  unrelent- 
ing. She  had  unmoved  seen  and  let  her  husband  go  to 
his  doom — it  was  his  doom  and  death  so  far  as  she  knew. 

Yet,  as  I  thought  of  this,  I  found  myself  again  admir- 
ing her.  She  was  handsome,  independent,  distinctly 
original,  and  possessing  capacity  for  great  things.  Be- 
sides, so  far,  she  had  not  been  actively  vindictive — 
simply  passively  indifferent  to  the  sufferings  of  others. 
She  seemed  to  regard  results  more  than  means.  All  she 
did  not  like  she  could  empty  into  the  mill  of  the  destroy- 
ing gods  :  just  as  General  Grant  poured  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  men  into  the  valley  of  the  James,  not  think- 
ing of  lives  but  victory,  not  of  blood  but  triumph.  She 
too,  even  in  her  cruelty,  seemed  to  have  a  sense  of  wild 
justice  which  disregarded  any  incidental  suffering. 

I  could  see  that  Mr.  Devlin  was  attracted  by  her,  as 
every  man  had  been  who  had  ever  met  her  ;  for,  after  all, 
man  is  but  a  common  slave  to  beauty:  virtue  he  respects, 
but  beauty  is  man's  valley  of  suicide.  Presently  she 
turned  to  Mr.  Devlin,  having,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  made 
Roscoe  and  Ruth  sufficiently  uncomfortable.     With  that 


MRS.    FALCHION.  l8l 

cheerful  insouciance  which  was  always  possible  to  her 
on  the  most  trying  occasions,  she  immediately  said,  as  she 
had  often  said  to  me,  that  she  had  come  to  Mr.  Devlin  to 
be  amused  for  the  morning,  perhaps  the  whole  day.  It 
was  her  way,  her  selfish  way,  to  make  men  her  slaves. 

Mr.  Devlin  gallantly  said  that  he  was  at  her  disposal, 
and  with  a  kind  of  pride  added  that  there  was  plenty  in 
the  valley  which  would  interest  her  ;  for  Mr.  Devlin  was 
a  frank,  bluff  man,  who  would  as  quickly  have  spoken 
disparagingly  of  what  belonged  to  himself,  if  it  was  not 
worthy,  as  have  praised  it. 

"  Where  shall  we  go  first  ?  "  he  said.     ' '  To  the  mill  ? " 

"  To  the  mill,  by  all  means,"  Mrs.  Falchion  replied  ; 
11  I  have  never  been  in  a  great  saw-mill,  and  I  believe 
this  is  very  fine.  Then,"  she  added,  with  a  little  wave 
of  the  hand  towards  the  cable  running  down  from  Phil 
Boldrick's  eyrie  in  the  mountains,  "  then  I  want  to  see  all 
that  cable  can  do — all,  remember." 

Mr.  Devlin  laughed.  "  Well,  it  hasn't  many  tricks,  but 
what  it  does  it  does  cleverly,  thanks  to  The  Padre." 

"  Oh  yes,"  responded  Mrs.  Falchion,  still  looking  at 
the  cable,  "  The  Padre  I  know  is  very  clever." 

"He  is  more  than  clever,"  bluffly  replied  Mr.  Devlin, 
who  was  not  keen  enough  to  see  the  faint  irony  in  her 
tones. 

"  Yes,"  responded  Mrs.  Falchion  in  the  same  tone  of 
voice,  "  he  is  more  than  clever.  I  have  been  told  that 
he  was  once  very  brave.  I  have  been  told  that  once  in 
the  South  Seas  he  did  his  country  a  great  service. " 

She  paused.  I  could  see  Ruth's  eyes  glisten  and  her 
face  suffuse,  for  though  she  read  the  faint  irony  in  the 
tone,  still  she  saw  that  the  tale  which  Mrs.  Falchion  was 
evidently  about  to  tell,  must  be  to  Gait  Roscoe's  credit. 
Mrs.  Falchion  idly  turned  upon  Ruth  and  saw  the  look 
in  her  face.  An  almost  imperceptible  smile  came  upon 
her   lips.      She    looked    again    at    the    cable    and    Phil 


182  MRS.    FALCHION. 

Boldrick's  eyrie,  which  seemed  to  have  a  wonderful 
attraction  for  her.  Not  turning  away  from  it,  save 
now  and  then  to  glance  indolently  at  Mr.  Devlin  or 
Ruth,  and  once  enigmatically  at  myself,  she  said  : 

"  Once  upon  a  time— that's  the  way  I  believe  to  begin 
a  pretty  story — there  were  four  men-of-war  idling  about 
a  certain  harbor  of  Samoa.  One  of  the  vessels  was  the 
flag-ship,  with  its  admiral  on  board.  On  one  of  the  other 
vessels  was  an  officer,  who  had  years  before  explored 
this  harbor.  It  was  the  hurricane  season.  He  advised 
the  admiral  not  to  enter  the  harbor,  for  the  indications 
foretold  a  gale,  and  himself  was  not  sure  that  his  chart 
was  in  all  respects  correct,  for  the  harbor  had  been 
hurriedly  explored  and  sounded.  But  the  admiral  gave 
orders,  and  they  sailed  in. 

"  That  day  a  tremendous  hurricane  came  crying  down 
upon  Samoa.  It  swept  across  the  island,  levelled  forests 
of  cocoa  palms,  battered  villages  to  pieces,  caught  that 
little  fleet  in  the  harbor,  and  played  with  it  in  a  horrible 
madness.  To  right  and  left  were  reefs,  behind  was  the 
shore,  with  a  monstrous  surf  rolling  in  ;  t  before  was  a 
narrow  passage.  One  vessel  made  its  way  out — on  it 
was  the  officer  who  had  surveyed  the  harbor.  In  the 
open  sea  there  was  safety.  He  brought  his  vessel  down 
the  coast  a  little  distance,  put  a  rope  about  him  and  in 
the  wild  surf  made  for  the  shore.  I  believe  he  could 
have  been  court-martialed  for  leaving  his  ship,  but  he 
was  a  man  who  had  taken  a  great  many  risks  of  one 
kind  and  another  in  his  time.  It  was  one  chance  out  of 
a  hundred  ;  but  he  made  it— he  got  to  the  shore,  travelled 
down  to  the  harbor  where  the  men-of-war  were  careen- 
ing towards  the  reefs,  unable  to  make  the  passage  out, 
and  once  again  he  tied  a  rope  about  him,  and  plunged 
into  the  surf  to  try  for  the  admiral's  ship.  He  got  there 
terribly  battered.  They  tell  how  a  big  wave  lifted  him 
and  landed  him  upon  the  quarter-deck  just  as  big  waves 


MRS.    FALCHION.  183 

are  not  expected  to  do.  Well,  like  the  hero  in  any 
melodrama  of  the  kind,  he  very  prettily  piloted  monsieur 
the  admiral  and  his  fleet  out  to  the  open  sea." 

She  paused,  smiling  in  an  inscrutable  sort  of  way,  then 
turned  and  said  with  a  sudden  softness  in  her  voice, 
though  still  with  the  air  of  one  who  wished  not  to  be 
taken  with  too  great  a  seriousness  :  "  And,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  the  name  of  the  ship  that  led  the  way  was 
the  Porcupine  j  and  the  name  of  the  hero  was  Com- 
mander Gait  Roscoe,  R.N.  ;  and  <  of  such  is  the  king- 
dom of  heaven  !  '  " 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  The  tale  had  been 
told  adroitly,  and  with  such  tact  as  to  words  that  Roscoe 
could  not  take  offence— need  not,  indeed,  as  he  did  not, 
I  believe,  feel  any  particular  self-consciousness.  I  am 
not  sure  but  he  was  a  little  glad  that  such  evidence 
should  have  been  given  at  the  moment,  when  a  kind  of 
restraint  had  come  between  him  and  Ruth,  by  one  who 
he  had  reason  to  think  was  not  wholly  his  friend, — might 
be  his  enemy.  It  was  a  kind  of  offset  to  his  premoni- 
tions and  to  the  peril  over  which  he  might  stumble  at 
any  moment. 

To  me  the  situation  was  almost  inexplicable ;  but  the 
woman  herself  was  inexplicable  :  at  this  moment  the  evil 
genius  of  us  all,  at  that  doing  us  all  a  kind  of  crude, 
superior  justice.     I  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Roscoe,"  I  said,  "  I  never  had  heard  of  this,  although 
I  remember  the  circumstance  as  told  in  the  newspapers. 
But  I  am  glad  and  proud  that  I  have  a  friend  with  such 
a  record  behind  him." 

"  And,  only  think,"  said  Mrs.  Falchion,  "  he  actually 
wasn't  court-martialed,  for  abandoning  his  ship  to  save 
an  admiral  and  a  fleet.  But  the  ways  of  the  English 
Admiralty  are  wonderful.  They  go  out  of  their  way  to 
avoid  a  court-martial  sometimes,  and  they  go  out  of  then 
way  to  establish  them  sometimes." 


184  MRS.    FALCHION. 

By  this  time  we  had  started  towards  the  mill.  Roscoe 
walked  ahead  with  Ruth  Devlin.  Mr.  Devlin,  Mrs. 
Falchion,  Justine  Caron  and  myself  walked  together. 

Mrs.  Falchion  presently  continued,  talking,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  at  the  back  of  Roscoe's  head. 

"  I  have  known  the  Admiralty  to  force  an  officer  to 
resign  the  navy  because  he  had  married  a  native  wife. 
But  I  never  knew  the  Admiralty  to  court-martial  an 
officer  because  he  did  not  marry  a  native  wife  whom  he 
ought  to  have  married  :  but,  as  I  said,  the  ways  of  the 
Admiralty  are  past  admiration." 

I  could  see  Roscoe's  hand  clench  at  his  side,  and  pres- 
ently he  said  over  his  shoulder  at  her :  "  Your  memory 
and  your  philosophy  are  as  wonderful  as  the  Admiralty 
are  inscrutable." 

She  laughed.  "  You  have  not  lost  your  old  gift  of 
retort,"  she  said.     "  You  are  still  amusing." 

"  Well,  come,"  said  Mr.  Devlin  cheerfully,  "  let's  see 
if  there  isn't  something  even  more  amusing  than  Mr. 
Roscoe  in  Viking.  I  will  show  you,  Mrs.  Falchion,  the 
biggest  saw  that  ever  ate  the  heart  out  of  a  Norfolk 
pine." 

At  the  mill  Mrs.  Falchion  was  interested.  She  asked 
questions  concerning  the  machinery  which  mightily 
pleased  Mr.  Devlin,  they  were  so  apt  and  intelligent;  and 
herself  assisted  in  giving  an  immense  log  to  the  teeth  of 
the  largest  saw,  which,  with  its  six  upright  blades,  ate  and 
was  never  satisfied.  She  stooped  and  ran  her  ungloved 
hand  into  the  saw-dust,  as  sweet  before  the  sun  has  dried 
it  as  the  scent  of  a  rose.  The  rich  smell  of  the  fresh-cut 
lumber  filled  the  air,  and  suggested  all  kinds  of  remote 
and  pleasant  things.  The  industry  itself  is  one  of  the 
first  that  comes  with  the  invasion  of  new  territory,  and 
makes  one  think  of  man's  first  work  in  the  world  :  to  fell 
the  tree  and  till  the  soil.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  that 
fierce,   jubilant  song  of  the  saw,  which   even  when  we 


MRS.    FALCHION.  185 

were  near  was  never  shrill  or  shrieking  :  never  drowning 
our  voices,  but  vibrant  and  delightful.  To  Mrs.  Falchion 
it  was  new ;  she  was  impressed. 

"  I  have  seen,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Devlin,  "  all  sorts  of 
enterprises,  but  never  anything  like  this.  It  all  has  a 
kind  of  rough  music.     It  is  enjoyable." 

Mr.  Devlin  beamed.  "  I  have  just  added  something  to 
the  mill  that  will  please  you,"  he  said. 

She  looked  interested.  We  all  gathered  round.  I 
stood  between  Mrs.  Falchion  and  Ruth  Devlin,  and  Ros- 
coe  beside  Justine  Caron. 

"  It  is  the  greatest  mill-whistle  in  the  country,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  It  will  be  heard  from  twelve  to  twenty-five 
miles,  according  to  the  condition  of  the  atmosphere.  I 
want  big  things  all  round,  and  this  is  a  masterpiece,  I 
guess.  Now,  I'll  let  you  hear  it  if  you  like.  I  didn't 
expect  to  use  it  until  to-night  at  nine  o'clock,  when,  also 
for  the  first  time,  I  am  to  light  the  mills  by  electricity  ;  a 
thing  that's  not  been  attempted  yet  in  any  saw-mill  on 
the  continent :  we're  going  to  work  night  and  day,  Mrs. 
Falchion,  for  a  couple  of  months." 

"  This  is  all  very  wonderful.  And  are  you  indebted 
to  Mr.  Roscoe  in  these  things  too  ? — Everybody  seems  to 
need  him  here." 

"Well,"  said  the  mill-owner  laughing,  "the  whistle  is 
my  own.  It's  the  sort  of  thing  I  would  propose— to  blow 
my  trumpet  as  it  were  ;  but  the  electricity  .and  the  first 
experiments  in  it   I  owe  to  The  Padre." 

"As  I  thought,"  she  said,  and  turned  to  Roscoe.  "I 
remember,"  she  added,  "that  you  had  an  electrical  search- 
light on  the  Porcupine,  and  that  you  were  fond  of  electri- 
city. Do  you  ever  use  search-lights  here  ?  I  should 
think  they  might  be  of  use  in  your  parish.  Then,  for  a 
change,  you  could  let  the  parish  turn  it  upon  you,  for  the 
sake  of  contrast  and  edification." 

For  the  moment  I  was  hatetuliy  angry.     Her  sarcasm 


l86  MRS.    FALCHION. 

was  well  veiled,  but  I  could  feel  the  sardonic  touch  be- 
neath the  smiling  surface.  This  innuendo  seemed  so 
gratuitous.  I  said  to  her  almost  beneath  my  breath, 
that  none  of  the  others  could  hear  :  "  You  tigress  !  " 

She  did  no  more  than  shrug  her  shoulder  in  acknowl- 
edgment, and  went  on  talking  lightly  to  Mr.  Devlin. 
Roscoe  was  cool  but  I  could  see  now  in  his  eyes  a  kind 
of  smouldering  anger  ;  which  was  quite  to  my  wish.  I 
hoped  he  would  be  meek  no  longer. 

Presently  Ruth  Devlin  said  :  "  Would  it  not  be  better 
to  wait  till  to-night,  when  the  place  is  lighted,  before  the 
whistle  is  blown  ?  Then  you  can  get  a  better  first  impres- 
sion. And  if  Mrs.  Falchion  will  come  over  to  our  home 
at  Sunburst,  we  will  try  and  amuse  her  for  the  rest  of  the 
day — that  is,  after  she  has  seen  all  here." 

Mrs.  Falchion  seemed  struck  by  the  frankness  of  the 
girl,  and  for  an  instant  debated,  but  presently  said  :  "  No, 
thank  you.  After  I've  seen  all  now,  I  will  go  to  the  hotel, 
and  then  will  join  you  all  here  in  the  evening,  if  that 
seems  feasible.  Perhaps  Dr.  Marmion  will  escort  me 
here.     Mr.  Roscoe,  of  course,  has  other  duties." 

"  I  shall  be  happy,"  I  said  maliciously  smiling,  "  to 
guide  you  to  the  sacrifice  of  the  saw. " 

She  was  not  disturbed.  She  touched  Mr.  Devlin's  arm, 
and,  looking  archly  at  him,  nodded  backwards  towards 
me.     "  '  Beware  the  anaconda  ! '  "  she  said. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  be  amused  ;  her  repartee  was 
always  so  cool  and  clever.  She  disarmed  one  by  what 
would  have  been,  in  a  man,  insolent  sang  fr old :  in  her  it 
was  daring,  aplomb. 

Presently  she  added  :  "  But  if  we  are  to  have  no  colos- 
sal whistle  and  no  electric  light  till  evening,  there  is  one 
thing  I  must  have  :  and  that  is  your  remarkable  Phil 
Boldrick,  who  seems  to  hold  you  all  in  the  palm  of  his 
hand,  and  lives  up  there  like  a  god  on  his  Olympus." 

"Well,  suppose  you  go  and  call  on  him,"  said  Roscoe 


MRS.    FALCHION.  187 

with  a  touch  of  dry  humor,  his  eye  on  the  cable  that 
reached  to  Boldrick's  perch. 

She  saw  her  opportunity,  and  answered  promptly. 
'•  Yes,  I  will  call  on  him  immediately," — here  she  turned 
towards  Ruth, — "  if  Miss  Devlin  and  yourself  will  go  with 
me." 

"Nonsense,"  interposed  Mr.  Devlin.  "Besides,  the 
cage  will  only  hold  two  easily.     Anyway,  it's  absurd." 

"Why  is  it  absurd?  Is  there  any  danger  ? "  queried 
Mrs.  Falchion. 

"  Not  unless  there's  an  idiot  at  the  machinery." 

"I  should  expect  you  to  'turn  the  crank,'"  she  per- 
sisted. 

"  But  no  woman  has  ever  done  it." 

"  I  will  make  the  record  then."  And,  turning  to  Ruth, 
— "  You  are  not  afraid  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  afraid,"  said  the  girl  bravely,  though 
•she  acknowledged  to  me  afterwards  that  while  she  was 
not  afraid  of  anything  where  her  own  skill  was  called 
in  question,  such  as  mountain-climbing,  or  even  puma- 
hunting,  she  did  not  joyfully  anticipate  swinging  between 
heaven  and  earth  on  that  incline.  "  I  will  go,"  she  added, 
"if  my  father  will  let  me.  .  .  .  May  I?"  she  con- 
tinued, turning  to  him. 

Perhaps  something  of  the  father's  pride  came  up  in 
him,  perhaps  he  had  just  got  some  suspicion  that  be- 
tween his  daughter  and  Mrs.  Falchion  there  was  a  sub- 
terranean rivalry.  However  it  was  he  gave  a  quick 
quizzical  look  at  both  of  them,  then  glanced  at  Roscoe, 
and  said  :  "  I'll  make  no  objections,  if  Ruth  would  like 
to  introduce  you  to  Phil.  And,  as  Mrs.  Falchion  sug- 
gested, I'll  'turn  the  crank'." 

I  could  see  that  Roscoe  had  a  bad  moment.  But  pres- 
ently he  appeared  to  me  perfectly  willing  that  Ruth  should 
go.  Maybe  he  was  as  keen  that  she  should  not  appear  at 
2.  disadvantage  beside  Mrs.  Falchion  as  was  her  father. 


l8S  MRS.    FALCHION. 

A  signal  was  given,  and  the  cage  came  slowly  down 
the  cable  to  the  mill.  We  could  see  Boldrick,  looking 
little  bigger  than  a  child  at  the  other  end,  watching  our 
movements.  At  the  last  moment  both  Mr.  Devlin  and 
Roscoe  seemed  apprehensive,  but  both  the  women  were 
cool  and  determined.  I  noticed  Mrs.  Falchion  look  at 
Ruth  curiously  once  or  twice  after  they  entered  the  cage 
and  before  they  started,  and  what  she  saw  evidently  gave 
her  a  higher  opinion  of  the  girl,  for  she  laid  her  hand  on 
Ruth's  arm  suddenly  and  said  :  "We'll  show  these  mere 
men  what  nerve  really  is." 

Ruth  nodded,  then  bon  voyage  was  said,  and  the  signal 
was  given.  The  cage  ascended  at  first  quickly,  then 
more  slowly,  swaying  up  and  down  a  little  on  the  cable, 
and  climbing  higher  and  higher  through  the  air  to  the 
mountain-side.  What  Boldrick  thought  when  he  saw  the 
two  ascending  towards  him  he  expressed  to  Mr.  Devlin 
later  in  the  day  in  vigorous  language  :  what  occurred  at 
his  hut  Ruth  Devlin  told  me  afterwards.  When  the  cage 
reached  him  he  helped  the  two  passengers  out,  and  took 
them  to  his  hut.  With  Ruth  he  had  always  been  a  favor- 
ite, and  he  welcomed  her  with  admiring  and  affectionate 
respect. 

"  Never  b'lieved  you  could  have  done  it,  Miss  Dev- 
lin— never !  Not  but  what  I  knew  you  weren't  afraid 
of  anything  on  the  earth  below  or  the  waters  under  the 
earth  ;  but  when  you  get  swinging  there  over  the  world, 
and  not  high  enough  to  get  a  hold  on  heaven,  it  makes 
you  feel  as  if  things  was  droppin'  away  from  you  like. 
But,  by  gracious!  you  did  it  like  an  eagle — you  and  your 
friend." 

By  this  time  he  was  introduced,  and  at  the  name  of  Mrs. 
Falchion,  he  cocked  his  head,  and  looked  quizzically,  as 
if  trying  to  remember  something,  then  drew  his  hand  once 
or  twice  across  his  forehead.  After  a  moment  he  said  : 
"  Strange  now,  ma'am,  how  your  name  strikes  me.    It  isn't 


MRS.    FALCHION.  189 

a  common  name,  and  I've  heerd  it  before  somewhere — 
somewhere.  It  isn't  your  face  that  I've  seen  before — for 
I'd  have  remembered  /"/  if  it  was  a  thousand  years  ago," 
he  added  admiringly.  "But  I've  heard  some  one  use  it; 
and  I  can't  tell  where." 

She  looked  curiously  at  him,  and  said  :  "  Don't  try  to 
remember,  and  it  will  come  to  you  in  good  time.  But 
show  us  everything  about  your  place  before  we  go  back, 
won't  you,  please  ?  " 

He  showed  them  his  hut  where  he  lived  quite  alone. 
It  was  supplied  with  bare  necessaries  and  with  a  counter, 
behind  which  were  cups  and  a  few  bottles.  In  reference 
to  this  Boldrick  said  :  "  Temperance  drinks  for  the 
muleteers,  tobacco  and  tea  and  sugar  and  postage  stamps 
and  things.  The)7  don't  gargle  their  throats  with  any- 
thing stronger  than  coffee  at  this  tavern." 

Then  he  took  them  to  the  cave  in  which  puma,  bear, 
and  wapiti  skins  were  piled,  together  with  a  few  stores 
and  the  kits  of  travellers  who  had  left  their  belongings 
in  Boldrick's  keeping  till  they  should  come  again. 
After  Mrs.  Falchion  and  Ruth  had  seen  all,  they  came 
out  upon  the  mountain-side  and  waved  their  handker- 
chiefs to  us,  who  were  still  watching  from  below.  Then 
Boldrick  hoisted  a  flag  on  his  hut,  which  he  used  on  gala 
occasions,  to  celebrate  the  event,  and  not  content  with  this 
fired  a  feu  de  jote,  managed  in  this  way  : — He  took  two 
anvils  used  by  the  muleteers  and  expressmen  to  shoe  their 
animals,  and  placed  one  on  the  other,  putting  powder  be- 
tween. Then  Mrs.  Falchion  thrust  a  red-hot  iron  into  the 
powder,  and  an  explosion  ensued.  I  was  for  a  moment 
uneasy,  but  Mr.  Devlin  reassured  me,  and  instantly  a  shrill 
whistle  from  the  little  mills  answered  the  salute. 

Just  before  they  got  into  the  cage  Mrs.  Falchion  turned 
to  Boldrick,  and  said  :  "  You  have  not  been  trying  to 
remember  where  you  heard  my  name  before  ?  Well, 
can't  you  recall  it  now?" 


I90  MRS.    FALCHION. 

Boldrick  shook  his  head.  "  Perhaps  you'll  recall  it 
before  I  see  you  again,"  she  said. 

They  started.  As  they  did  so,  Mrs.  Falchion  said 
suddenly,  looking  at  Boldrick  keenly  :  "  Were  you  ever 
in  the  South  Seas?" 

Boldrick  stood  for  an  instant  open-mouthed  and  then 
exclaimed  loudly  as  the  cage  swung  down  the  incline : 
"  By  Jingo  !  No,  ma'am,  I  was  never  there,  but  I  had 
a  pal  who  come  from  Samoa." 

She  called  back  at  him,— "  Tell  me  of  him  when  we 
meet  again.     What  was  his  name  ?  " 

They  were  too  far  down  the  cable  now  for  Boldrick's 
reply  to  reach  them  distinctly.  The  descent  seemed  even 
more  adventurous  than  the  ascent,  and,  in  spite  of  my- 
self, I  could  not  help  a  thrill  of  keen  excitement.  But 
they  were  both  smiling  when  the  cage  reached  us,  and 
both  had  a  very  fine  color. 

"  A  delightful  journey,  a  remarkable  reception,  and  a 
very  singular  man  is  your  Mr.  Boldrick,"  said-  Mrs.  Fal- 
chion. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Devlin,  "you'll  know  Boldrick  a 
long  time  before  you  find  his  limits.  He  is  about  the 
most  curious  character  I  ever  knew,  and  does  the  most 
curious  things.  But  straight — straight  as  a  die,  Mrs. 
Falchion  !  " 

"  I  fancy  that  Mr.  Boldrick  and  I  would  be  very  good 
friends  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Falchion  ;  "  and  I  purpose 
visiting  him  again.  It's  quite  probable  that  we  shall  find 
we  have  had  mutual  acquaintances."  She  looked  at 
Roscoe  meaningly  as  she  said  this,  but  he  was  occupied 
with  Ruth. 

"  You  were  not  afraid  ?  "  Roscoe  said  to  Ruth.  "  Was 
it  not  a  strange  sensation  ?  " 

"  Frankly,  at  first  I  was  a  little  afraid,  because  the  cage 
swings  on  the  cable,  and  it  makes  you  uncomfortable. 
But  I  enjoyed  it  before  we  got  to  the  end. " 


MRS.    FALCHION.  191 

Mrs.  Falchion  turned  to  Mr.  Devlin.  "  I  find  plenty 
here  to  amuse  me,"  she  said,  "and  I'm  glad  I  came.  To- 
night I  want  to  go  up  that  cable  and  call  on  Mr.  Boldrick 
again,  and  see  the  mills  and  the  electric  light,  and  hear 
your  whistle,  from  up  there.  Then,  of  course,  you  must 
show  us  the  mill  working  at  night,  and  afterwards — may 
I  ask  it  ?— you  must  all  come  and  have  supper  with  me  at 
the  summer  hotel." 

Ruth  dropped  her  eyes.  I  saw  she  did  not  wish  to  go. 
Fortunately  Mr.  Devlin  extricated  her.  "  I'm  afraid  that 
will  be  impossible,  Mrs.  Falchion,"  he  said  :  "  much 
obliged  to  you  all  the  same.  But  I'm  going  to  be  at  the 
mill  pretty  near  all  night,  and  wouldn't  be  able  to  go,  and 
I  don't  want  Ruth  to  go  without  me." 

"  Then  it  must  be  another  time,"  said  Mrs.  Falchion. 

"  Oh,  whenever  it's  convenient  for  Ruth,  after  a  day 
or  two,  I'll  be  ready  and  glad.  But  I  tell  you  what  :  if  you 
want  to  see  something  fine,  you  must  go  down  as  soon  as 
possible  to  Sunburst.  We  live  there,  you  know,  not  here 
at  Viking.  It's  funny,  too,  because,  you  see,  there's  a 
feud  between  Viking  and  Sunburst — we  are  all  river-men 
and  mill-hands  at  Viking,  and  they're  all  salmon-fishers 
and  fruit-growers  at  Sunburst.  By  rights  I  ought  to  live 
here,  but  when  I  started  I  thought  I'd  build  my  mills 
at  Sunburst,  so  I  pitched  my  tent  down  there.  My  wife 
and  the  girls  got  attached  to  the  place,  and  though  the 
mills  were  built  at  Viking  and  I  made  all  my  money  up 
here,  I  live  at  Sunburst  and  spend  my  shekels  there.  I 
guess  if  I  didn't  happen  to  live  at  Sunburst,  people  would 
be  trailing  their  coats  and  making  Donnybrook  fairs 
every  other  day  between  these  two  towns.  But  that's 
neither  here  nor  there.  Take  my  advice,  Mrs.  Falchion, 
and  come  to  Sunburst  and  see  the  salmon-fishers  at 
work,  both  day  and  night.  Its  about  the  biggest  thing 
in  the  way  of  natural  picturesqueness  that  you'll  see 
— outside  my  mills.  Indians,  half-breeds,  white  men, 
13 


192 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


Chinamen, — they  are  all  at  it  in  weirs  and  cages,  or  in  the 
nets,  and  spearing  by  torch-light ! — Don't  you  think  I'd 
do  to  run  a  circus,  Mrs.  Falchion  ?— Stand  at  the  door, 
and  shout,  '  Here's  where  you  get  the  worth  of  your 
money  '  ? " 

Mrs.  Falchion  laughed.  "  I  am  sure  you  and  I  will  be 
good  friends  ;  you  are  amusing.  And  to  be  perfectly 
frank  with  you,  I'm  just  about  weary  of  trying  to  live 
in  the  intellectual  altitudes  of  Dr.  Marmion — and  The 
Padre." 

I  had  never  seen  her  in  a  greater  strain  of  gaiety. 
It  had  almost  a  kind  of  feverishness— as  if  she  relished 
fully  the  position  she  held  toward  Roscoe  and  Ruth, 
her  power  over  their  future,  and  her  belief  (as  I  think 
was  in  her  mind  then)  that  she  could  bring  back  to 
herself  Roscoe's  old  allegiance.  That  she  believed  this, 
I  was  convinced  ;  that  she  would  never  carry  it  out 
was  just  as  strong  :  for  I,  though  only  the  chorus  in  the 
drama,  might  one  day  find  it  in  my  power  to  become,  for 
a  moment,  one  of  the  principal  actors,— from  which  posi- 
tion I  had  declined  one  day  when  humiliated  before  Mrs. 
Falchion  on  the  Fulvia.  Boyd  Madras  was  in  my  mind. 
After  a  few  minutes  we  parted,  agreeing  to  meet  again 
in  the  valley  in  the  evening.  I  had  promised,  as  Mrs. 
Falchion  had  suggested,  to  escort  her  and  Justine  Caron 
from  the  summer  hotel  to  the  mill.  Roscoe  had  duties 
at  both  Viking  and  Sunburst,  and  would  not  join  us  until 
we  all  met  in  the  evening.  Mr.  Devlin  and  Ruth  rode 
away  towards  Sunburst.  Mrs.  Falchion,  Justine,  and 
myself  travelled  slowly  up  the  hillside,  talking  chiefly 
upon  the  events  of  the  morning.  Mrs.  Falchion  appeared 
to  admire  greatly  the  stalwart  character  of  Mr.  Devlin  ; 
in  a  few  swift,  complimentary  words  disposed  of  Ruth  ; 
and  then  made  many  inquiries  concerning  Roscoe's  work, 
my  own  position,  and  the  length  of  my  stay  in  the  moun- 
tains ;  and  talked  upon  many  trivial  matters,  never  once 


MRS.    FALCHION.  I93 

referring — as  it  seemed  to  me,  purposely — to  our  past 
experiences  on  the  Fulvia,  nor  making  any  inquiry  con- 
cerning any  one  except  Belle  Treherne. 

She  showed  no  surprise  when  I  told  her  that  I  expected 
to  marry  Miss  Treherne.  She  congratulated  me  with 
apparent  frankness,  and  asked  for  Miss  Treherne's  ad- 
dress, saying  she  would  write  to  her.  As  soon  as  she 
had  left  Roscoe's  presence  she  had  dropped  all  enigmat- 
ical words  and  phrases,  and,  during  this  hour  I  was  with 
her,  was  the  tactful,  accomplished  woman  of  the  world, 
with  the  one  present  object  :  to  make  her  conversation 
agreeable,  and  to  keep  things  on  the  surface.  Justine 
Caron  scarcely  spoke  during  the  whole  of  our  walk, 
although  I  addressed  myself  to  her  frequently.  But  I 
could  see  that  she  watched  Mrs.  Falchion's  face  curi- 
ously ;  and  I  believe  that  at  this  time  her  instinct  was 
keener  by  far  to  read  what  was  in  Mrs.  Falchion's  mind 
than  my  own,  though  I  knew  far  more  of  the  hidden 
chain  of  events  connecting  Mrs.  Falchion's  life  and  Gait 
Roscoe's. 

I  parted  from  them  at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  made  my 
way  down  to  Roscoe's  house  at  the  ravine,  and  busied 
myself  for  the  greater  part  cf  the  day  in  writing  letters 
and  reading  on  the  coping.  About  sunset  I  called 
for  Mrs.  Falchion  and  found  her  and  Justine  Caron 
ready  and  waiting.  There  was  nothing  eventful  in  our 
talk  as  we  came  down  the  mountain-side  towards  Viking 
— Justine  Caron's  presence  precluded  that.  It  was  dusk 
when  we  reached  the  valley.  As  yet  the  mills  were  all 
dark.  The  only  lights  visible  were  in  the  low  houses 
lining  the  banks  of  the  river.  Against  the  mountain-side 
there  seemed  to  hang  one  bunch  of  flame  like  a  star, 
large,  red  and  weird.  It  was  a  torch  burning  in  front  of 
Phil  Boldrick's  hut.  We  made  our  way  slowly  to  the 
mill,  and  found  Mr.  Devlin,  Ruth,  and  Roscoe,  with 
Ruth's  sister  and  one  or  two  other  friends,  expecting  us. 


194  MRS-    FALCHION. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Devlin  heartily,  "  I've  kept  the  show 
waiting  for  you  ;  the  house  is  all  dark,  but  I  guess  you'll 
see  a  transformation  scene  pretty  quick.  Come  out,"  he 
continued,  "and  let's  get  the  front  seats.  They're  all 
stalls  here  ;  nobody  has  a  box  except  Boldrick,  and  it's 
up  in  the  flies." 

"  Mr.  Devlin,"  said  Mrs.  Falchion,  "  I  purpose  to  see 
this  show  not  only  from  the  stalls,  but  from  the  box  in 
the  flies.  Therefore,  during  the  first  act,  I  shall  be  here 
in  front  of  the  foot-lights  During  the  second  act  I  shall 
be  aloft  like  Tom  Bowling " 

"  In  other  words — "  began  Mr.  Devlin 


"  In  other  words,"  added  Mrs.  Falchion,  "I  am  going 
to  see  this  valley  and  hear  your  great  horn  blow,  from 
up  there  !  "  She  pointed  towards  the  star  in  front  of 
Phil's  hut. 

"  All  right,"  said  Mr.  Devlin,  "  but  you'll  excuse  me  if 
I  say  that  I  don't  particularly  want  anybody  to  see  this 
performance  from  where  Tom  Bowling  bides." 

We  left  the  office  and  went  out  upon  the  platform,  a 
little  distance  from  the  mill.  Mr.  Devlin  gave  a  signal, 
touched  a  wire,  and  immediately  it  seemed  as  if  the 
whole  valley  was  alight.  The  mill  itself  was  in  a  blaze 
of  white.  It  was  transfigured — a  fairy  palace,  just  as 
the  mud  barges  in  the  Suez  Canal  had  been  transformed 
by  the  search-light  of  the  Fulvia.  For  the  moment,  in 
the  wonder  of  change  from  darkness  to  light,  the  valley 
became  the  picture  of  a  dream.  Every  man  was  at  his 
post  in  the  mill,  and  in  an  instant  work  was  going  on  as 
we  had  seen  it  in  the  morning.  Then,  all  at  once,  there 
came  a  great  roar,  as  it  were  from  the  very  heart  of  the 
mill, — a  deep  diapason,  dug  out  of  the  throat  of  the  hills  : 
the  big  whistle. 

"  It  sounds  mournful — like  a  great  animal  in  pain," 
said  Mrs.  Falchion.  "  You  might  have  got  one  more 
cheerful." 


MRS.    FALCHION.  195 

"  Wait  till  it  gets  tuned  up,"  said  Mr.  Devlin.  "  It 
hasn't  had  a  chance  to  get  the  burs  out  of  its  throat. 
It'll  be  very  fine  as  soon  as  the  engine-man  knows  how 
to  manage  it. " 

"  Yes,"  said  Ruth,  interposing,  "  a  little  toning  down 
would  do  it  good — it  is  shaking  the  windows  in  your 
office  ;  feel  this  platform  tremble  !  " 

"  Well,  I  bargained  for  a  big  whistle  and  I've  got  it  : 
and  I  guess  they'll  know  if  ever  there's  a  fire  in  this 
town  !  " 

Just  as  he  said  this  Roscoe  gave  a  cry,  and  pointed. 
We  all  turned  and  saw  a  sight  that  made  Ruth  Devlin 
cover  her  face  with  her  hands  and  Mrs.  Falchion  stand 
horror-stricken.  There,  coming  down  the  cable  with 
the  speed  of  lightning  was  the  cage.  In  it  was  a  man — 
Phil  Boldrick.  With  a  cry  and  a  smothered  oath  Mr. 
Devlin  sprang  toward  the  machinery,  Roscoe  with  him. 
There  was  nobody  near  it,  but  they  saw  a  boy  whose 
duty  it  was  that  night  to  manage  the  cable,  running 
towards  it.  Roscoe  was  the  first  to  reach  the  lever  :  but 
it  was  too  late.  He  partially  stopped  the  cage,  but  only 
partially.  It  came  with  a  dull,  sickening  thud  to  the 
ground,  and  Phil  Boldrick — Phil  Boldrick's  broken  bat- 
tered body — was  thrown  out. 

A  few  minutes  later  Boldrick  was  lying  in  Mr.  Dev- 
lin's office. 

Ill  luck  for  Viking  in  the  hour  of  her  success.  Phil's 
shattered  hulk  is  drifting.  The  masts  have  gone  by  the 
board,  the  pilot  from  the  captain's  side.  Only  the  man's 
"  unconquerable  soul  "  is  on  the  bridge,  watching  the 
craft  dip  at  the  bow,  till  the  waters,  their  sport  out, 
should  hugely  swallow  it. 

We  were  all  gathered  round.  Phil  had  asked  to  see 
the  lad  who,  by  neglecting  the  machinery  for  a  moment, 
had  wrecked  his  life.  "  Youngster,"  he  said,  "  you 
played  an  ugly  game.     It  was  a  big  mistake.     I  haven't 


196  MRS.    FALCHION. 

any  grudge  agen  you,  but  be  glad  I  ain't  one  that'd 
haunt  you  for  your  cussed  foolishness.  .  .  .  There, 
now,  I  feel  better  :  that's  off  my  mind  !  " 

"  If  you're  yearning  to  show  remorse  or  anything,"  he 
continued,  "  there's  my  friend  Roscoe,  The  Padre — he's 
all  right,  you  understand  !  .  .  .  Are  you  there  ? 
.  .  .  Why  don't  you  speak  ?  "  He  stretched  out  his 
hand.  The  lad  took  it,  but  he  could  not  speak  :  he  held 
it  and  sobbed. 

Then  Phil  understood.  His  brow  wrinkled  with  a 
sudden  trouble.  He  said  :  "  There,  never  mind.  I'm 
dying,  but  it  isn't  what  I  expected.  It  doesn't  smart 
nor  tear  much  ;  not  more  than  river-rheumatism.  P'r'aps 
I  wouldn't  mind  it  at  all  if  I  could  see." 

For,  Phil  was  entirely  blind  now.  The  accident  had 
destroyed  his  remaining  eye.  Being  blind,  he  had  al- 
ready passed  that  first  corridor  of  death — darkness. 

Roscoe  stooped  over  him,  took  his  hand,  and  spoke 
quietly  to  him.  Phil  knew  the  voice,  and  said  with  a 
faint  smile  :  "  Do  you  think  they'd  plant  me  with 
mumaj>a.\  honors  ? — honors  to  pardners  ?  " 

"  We'll  see  to  that,  Phil/'  said  Mr.  Devlin  from  behind 
the  clergyman. 

Phil  recognized  the  voice.  "  You  think  that  nobody'll 
kick  at  making  it  official  ?  " 

"  Not  one,  Phil." 

"  And  maybe  they  wouldn't  mind  nrin'  a  volley — Lights 
out,  as  it  were  :  and  blow  the  big  whistle  ?  It'd  look 
sociable,  wouldn't  it?" 

"There'll  be  a  volley  and  the  whistle,  Phil,— if  you 
have  to  go,"  said  Mr.  Devlin. 

There  was  a  silence,  then  the  reply  came  musingly  :  "  I 
guess  I  hev  to  go.  .  .  .  I'd  hev  liked  to  see  the  cor- 
poration runnin'  longer,  but  maybe  I  can  trust  the  boys." 

A  river-driver  at  the  door  said  in  a  deep  voice  :  "  By 
—  !  yes,  you  can  trust  us. " 


MRS.    FALCHION.  197 

"  Thank  you  kindly.  .  .  .  If  it  doesn't  make  any 
difference  to  the  rest  I'd  like  to  be  alone  with  The  Padre 
for  a  little — not  for  religion,  you  understand, — for  I  go 
as  I  stayed,  and  I  hev  my  views, — but  for  private  busi- 
ness." 

Slowly,  awkwardly  the  few  river-drivers  passed  out — . 
Devlin  and  Mrs.  Falchion  and  Ruth  and  I  with  them 
— for  I  could  do  nothing  now  for  him — he  was  broken 
all  to  pieces.  Roscoe  told  me  afterwards  what  happened 
then. 

"  Padre,"  he  said  to  Roscoe,  "are  we  alone  ?" 

"Quite  alone,  Phil." 

"Well,  I  hevn't  any  crime  to  tell,  and  the  business  ain't 

weighty  ;    but  I   have  a  pal  at  Danger  Mountain " 

He  paused. 

"  Yes,  Phil  ?  " 

"  He's  low  down  in  s'ciety  ;  but  he's  square,  and  we've 
had  the  same  blanket  for  many  a  day  together.  I  crossed 
him  first  on  the  Panama  level.  I  was  broke — stoney 
broke.  He'd  been  shipwrecked,  and  was  ditto.  He'd 
been  in  the  South  Seas  ;  I  in  Nicaragua.  We  travelled 
up  through  Mexico  and  Arizona,  and  then  through  Cali- 
fornia to  the  Canadian  Rockies.  At  last  we  camped  at 
Danger  Mountain,  a  Hudson's  Bay  fort,  and  stayed  there. 
It  was  a  roughish  spot,  but  we  didn't  mind  that.  Every 
place  isn't  Viking.  One  night  we  had  a  difference — not 
a  quarrel,  mind  you,  but  a  difference.  He  was  for 
lynchin'  a  fellow  called  Piccadilly,  a  swell  that'd  come 
down  in  the  world,  bringin'  the  worst  tricks  of  his  tribe 
with  him.  He'd  never  been  a  bony  fidy  gentleman,  just 
an  imitation.  He  played  sneak  with  the  daughter  of 
Five  Fingers,  an  Injin  chief.  We'd  set  store  by  that 
girl.  There  wasn't  one  of  us  rough  nuts  but  respected 
her.  She  was  one  of  the  few  beautiful  Injin  women  I've 
seen.  Well,  it  come  out  that  Piccadilly  had  ruined  her, 
and  one  morning  she  was  found  dead.     It  drove  my  pal 


198  MRS.    FALCHION. 

well  nigh  crazy.  Not  that  she  was  anything  partik'ler  to 
him  ;  but  the  thing  took  hold  of  him  unusual." 

Now  that  I  know  all  concerning  Roscoe's  past  life,  I 
can  imagine  that  this  recital  must  have  been  swords  at 
his  heart.  The  whole  occurrence  is  put  down  minutely 
in  his  diary,  but  there  is  no  word  of  comment  upon  it. 

Phil  had  been  obliged  to  stop  for  pain,  and,  after 
Roscoe  had  adjusted  the  bandages,  he  continued: 

"  My  pal  and  the  others  made  up  their  minds  they'd 
lynch  Piccadilly  ;  they  wouldn't  give  him  the  benefit  of 
the  doubt — for  it  wasn't  certain  that  the  girl  hadn't  killed 
herself.  .  .  .  Well,  I  went  to  Piccadilly,  and  give 
him  the  benefit.  He  left,  and  skipped  the  rope.  Not, 
p'r'aps,  that  he  ought  to  hev  got  away,  but  once  he'd 
showed  me  a  letter  from  his  mother, — he  was  drunk  too 
at  the  time, — and  I  remembered  when  my  brother  Rodney 
was  killed  in  the  Black  Hills,  and  how  my  mother  took 
it ;  so  I  give  him  the  tip  to  travel  quick." 

He  paused  and  rested.     Then  presently  continued  : 

"  Now,  Padre,  I've  got  four  hundred  dollars, — the 
most  I  ever  had  at  one  time  in  my  life.  And  I'd  like  it 
to  go  to  my  old  pal — though  we  had  that  difference,  and 
parted.  I  guess  we  respect  each  other  about  the  same 
as  we  ever  did.  And  I  wish  you'd  write  it  down  so  that 
the  thing  would  be  municipal." 

Roscoe  took  pencil  and  paper  and  said  :  "  What's  his 
name,  Phil  ?  " 

"Sam — Tonga  Sam." 

"  But  that  isn't  all  his  name  ?" 

"  No,  I  s'pose  not,  but  it's  all  he  ever  had  in  general 
use.  He'd  got  it  because  he'd  been  to  the  Tonga  Islands 
and  used  to  yarn  about  them.  Put  '  Tonga  Sam,  Phil 
Boldrick's  Pal  at  Danger  Mountain,  ult,' — add  the  'ult,' 
it's  correct. — That'll  find  him.  And  write  him  these 
words,  and  if  you  ever  see  him  say  them  to  him  : — '  Phil 
Boldrick  never  had  a  pal  that  crowded  Tonga  Sam.'  " 


MRS.    FALCHION.  T99 

When  the  document  was  written,  Roscoe  read  it  aloud, 
then  both  signed  it,  Roscoe  guiding  the  battered  hand 
over  the  paper. 

This  done,  there  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  Phil 
said  :  "  I'd  like  to  be  in  the  open.  I  was  born  in  the 
open— on  the  Saskatchewan.     Take  me  out,  Padre." 

Roscoe  stepped  to  the  door,  and  silently  beckoned  to 
Devlin  and  myself.  We  carried  him  out,  and  put  him 
beside  a  pine  tree. 

"  Where  am  I  now  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Under  the  white  pine,  Phil." 

"  That's  right.     Face  me  to  the  north." 

We  did  so.  Minutes  passed  in  silence.  Only  the 
song  of  the  saw  was  heard,  and  the  welting  of  the  river. 

"  Padre,"  he  said  at  last  hurriedly,  "lift  me  up,  so's  I 
can  breathe." 

This  was  done. 

"  Am  I  facin'  the  big  mill  ? " 

"  Yes." 

11  That's  c'rrect.  And  the  'lectric  light  is  burnin'  in 
the  mill  and  in  the  town,  an'  the  saws  are  all  goin'  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  By  gracious,  yes— you  can  hear  'em  !  Don't  they 
scrunch  the  stuff  though  !  "  He  laughed  a  little.  "  Mr. 
Devlin  an'  you  and  me  hev  been  pretty  smart,  hevn't 
we  ?  " 

Then  a  spasm  caught  him,  and  after  a  painful  pause 
he  called  :  "  It's  the  biggest  thing  in  cables. — Stand 
close  in  the  cage.  .  .  .  Feel  her  swing — safe,  you 
bet,  if  he  stands  by  the  lever  !     .     .     ." 

His  face  lighted  with  the  last  gleam  of  living,  and  he 
said  slowly  :  "  I  hev  a  pal — at  Danger  Mountain." 


200  MRS.    FALCHION. 

CHAPTER  XV. 

IN    THE    TROUGH    OF    THE    WINDS. 

The  three  days  following  the  events  recorded  in  the 
preceding  chapter  were  notable  to  us  all.  Because  my 
own  affairs  and  experiences  are  of  the  least  account,  I 
shall  record  them  first :  they  will  at  least  throw  a  little 
light  on  the  history  of  people  who  appeared  previously 
in  this  tale  and  disappeared  suddenly  when  the  Fulvia 
reached  London,  to  make  room  for  others. 

The  day  after  Phil  Boldrick's  death  I  received  a  letter 
from  Hungerford,  and  also  one  from  Belle  Treherne. 
Hungerford  had  left  the  Occidental  Company's  service, 
and  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  get  the  position  of  first 
officer  on  a  line  of  steamers  running  between  England  and 
the  West  Indies.  The  letter  was  brusque,  incisive,  and 
forceful,  and  declared  that,  once  he  got  his  foot  firmly 
planted  in  his  new  position,  he  would  get  married  and 
be  done  with  it.  He  said  that  Clovelly,  the  novelist,  had 
given  a  little  dinner  at  his  chambers  in  Piccadilly,  and 
that  the  guests  were  all  our  fellow-passengers  by  the 
Fulvia;  among  them  Colonel  Ryder,  the  bookmaker, 
Blackburn  the  Queenslander,  and  himself. 

This  is  extracted  from  the  letter  :  — 

"  .  .  .  .  Clovelly  was  in  rare  form. — Don't  run  away  with  the 
idea  that  he's  eating  his  heart  out  because  you  came  in  just  ahead  in 
the  race  for  Miss  Treherne.  For  my  part — but,  never  mind  ! — You 
had  phenomenal  luck,  and  you'll  be  a  phenomenal  fool  if  you  don't 
arrange  for  an  early  marriage.  You're  a  perfect  baby  in  some  things. 
Don't  you  know  that  the  time  a  woman  most  yearns  for  a  man  is 
when  she  has  refused  him?  And  Clovelly  is  here  on  the  ground,  and 
they're  in  the  same  set,  and  though  I'd  take  my  oath  she  would  be 
loyal  to  you  if  you  were  ten  thousand  miles  from  here  for  ten  years, 
so  far  as  a  promise  is  concerned,  yet,  remember  that  a  promise  and  a 
fancy  are  two  different  things.      We  may  do  what's  right  for  the  fear 


MRS.    FALCHION.  201 

o'  God,  and  not  love  Him  either.     Marmion,  let  the  marriage  bells 
be  rung  early — a  maiden's  heart  is  a  ticklish  thing.     .     .     . 

"  But  Clovelly  was  in  rare  form,  as  I  said  ;  and  the  bookmaker, 
who  had  for  the  first  time  read  a  novel  of  his,  amiably  quoted  from 
it,  and  criticised  it  during  the  dinner,  till  the  place  reeked  with 
laughter.  At  first  every  one  stared  aghast  ('stared  aghast ! ' — how  is 
that  for  literary  form?)  but  when  Clovelly  gurgled,  and  then  haw- 
hawed  till  he  couldn't  lift  his  champagne,  the  rest  of  us  followed  in  a 
double-quick.  And  the  bookmaker  simply  sat  calm  and  earnest 
with  his  eye-glass  in  his  eye,  and  never  did  more  than  gently  smile. 
'  See  here,'  he  said  ever  so  candidly  of  Clovelly's  best  character,  a 
serious  inscrutable  kind  of  a  man,  the  dignified  figure  in  the  book  ;  '  I 
liked  the  way  you  drew  that  muff.  He  was  such  an  awful  outsider, 
wasn't  he  ?  All  talk,  and  hypocrite  down  to  his  heels.  And  when 
you  married  him  to  that  lady  who  nibbled  her  food  in  public  and 
gorged  in  the  back-pantry,  and  went  "slumming"  and  made 
shoulder-strings  for  the  parson— oh,  I  know  the  kind  !  '—[This  was 
Clovelly's  heroine  whom  he  had  tried  to  draw,  as  he  said  himself, 
"with  a  perfect  sincerity  and  a  lovely  worldly-mindedness,  and  as 
'a  good  fellow  altogether'."]  'I  said,  that's  poetic  justice,  that's 
the  refinement  of  retribution.  Any  other  yarn-spinner  would  have 
killed  the  male  idiot  by  murder  or  a  drop  from  a  precipice,  or  a  linger- 
ing fever  ;  but  Clovelly  did  the  thing  with  delicate  torture.  He 
said  "go  to  blazes,"  and  he  fixed  up  that  marriage— and  there  you 
are  !     Clovelly,  I  drink  to  you  ;   you're  a  master  !' 

"  Clovelly  acknowledged  beautifully,  and  brought  off  a  fine  thing 
about  the  bookmaker  having  pocketed  ^5,000  at  the  Derby,  then 
complimented  Colonel  Ryder  on  his  success  as  a  lecturer  in  London 
(pretty  true,  by  the  way)  and  congratulated  Blackburn  on  his  coming 
marriage  with  Mrs.  Callendar,  the  Tasmanian  widow.  What  he  said 
of  myself  I'm  not  going  to  repeat  ;  but  it  was  salaaming  all  round, 
with  the  liquor  good  and  fun  bang  over  the  bulwarks. 

"  How  is  Roscoe  ?  I  didn't  see  as  much  of  him  as  you  did,  but  I 
liked  him.  Take  my  tip  for  it,  that  woman  will  make  trouble  for 
him  some  day.  She  is  the  biggest  puzzle  I  ever  met.  I  never  could 
tell  whether  she  liked  him  or  hated  him  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
either  would  be  the  ruin  of  any  '  Christom  man.'  I  know  she  saw 
something  of  him  while  she  was  in  London,  because  her  quarters 
were  next  to  those  of  my  aunt,  the  dowager  (whose  heart  the  gods 
soften  at  my  wedding!)  in  Queen  Anne's  Mansions  S.  W.,  and 
who  actually  liked  Mrs.  F.,  called  on  her,  and  asked  her  to  dinner, 
and   Roscoe  too  whom  she  met  at   her  place.      I   believe   my  aunt 


202  MRS.    FALCHION. 

would  have  used  her  influence  to  get  him  a  good  living,  if  he  had 
played  his  cards  properly  ;  but  I  expect  he  wouldn't  be  patronized, 
and  he  went  for  a  '  mickonaree,'  as  they  say  in  the  South  Seas  .  .  . 
Well,  I'm  off  to  the  Spicy  Isles,  then  back  again  to  marry  a  wife  ! 
'  Go  thou  and  do  likewise.' 

"  By  the  way,  have  you  ever  heard  of  or  seen  Boyd  Madras  since 
he  slipped  our  cable  at  Aden  and  gave  the  world  another  chance  ? 
I  trust  he  will  spoil  her  wedding — if  she  ever  tries  to  have  one. 
'  May  I  be  there  to  see  ! '  " 

Because  we  shall  see  nothing  more  of  Hungerford  till 
we  finally  dismiss  the  drama,  I  should  like  to  say  that 
this  voyage  of  his  to  the  West  Indies  made  his  fortune — 
that  is,  it  gave  him  command  of  one  of  the  finest  ships 
in  the  English  merchant  service.  In  a  storm  a  disaster 
occurred  to  his  vessel,  his  captain  was  washed  overboard, 
and  he  was  obliged  to  take  command.  His  skill,  forti- 
tude, and  great  manliness,  under  tragical  circumstances, 
sent  his  name  booming  round  the  world  ;  and,  coupled, 
as  it  was,  with  a  singular  act  of  personal  valor,  he  had  his 
pick  of  all  vacancies  and  possible  vacancies  in  the  mer- 
chant service,  boy  (or  little  more)  as  he  was.  I  am  glad 
to  say  that  he  is  now  a  happy  husband  and  father  too. 

The  letter  from  Belle  Treherne  mentioned  having  met 
Clovelly  several  times  of  late,  and,  with  Hungerford's 
words  hot  in  his  mind,  I  determined,  though  I  had  per- 
fect confidence  in  her,  as  in  myself,  to  be  married  at 
Christmas-time.  Her  account  of  the  courtship  of  Black- 
burn and  Mrs.  Callendar  was  as  amusing  as  her  descrip- 
tion of  an  evening  which  the  bookmaker  had  spent  with 
her  father,  when  he  said  he  was  going  to  marry  an  actress 
whom  he  had  seen  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre  in  a  racing 
drama.  This  he  subsequently  did,  and  she  ran  him  a 
break-neck  race  for  many  a  day,  but  never  making  him 
unhappy  or  less  resourceful.  His  verdict,  and  his  only 
verdict,  upon  Mrs.  Falchion  had  been  confided  to 
Blackburn,  who  in  turn  confided  it  to  Clovelly,  who 
passed  it  on  to  me. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  203 

He  said :  "  A  woman  is  like  a  horse.  Make  her 
beautiful,  give  her  a  high  temper  and  a  bit  of  bad 
luck  in  her  youth,  and  she'll  take  her  revenge  out  of 
life  ;  even  though  she  runs  straight,  and  wins  straight 
every  time  ;  till  she  breaks  her  heart  one  day  over  a  lost 
race.  After  that  she  is  good  to  live  with  forever.  A 
heart-break  for  that  kind  is  their  salvation  :  without  it 
they  go  on  breaking  the  hearts  of  others." 

As  I  read  Belle's  and  Hungerford's  letters  my  thoughts 
went  back  again — as  they  did  so  often  indeed — to  the 
voyage  of  the  Fulvia,  and  to  Mrs.  Falchion's  presence 
here  in  the  Rocky  Mountains.  There  was  a  strange 
destiny  in  it  all,  and  I  had  no  pleasant  anticipations 
about  the  end  ;  for,  even  if  she  could  or  did  do  Roscoe 
no  harm,  so  far  as  his  position  was  concerned,  I  saw  that 
she  had  already  begun  to  make  trouble  between  him  and 
Ruth. 

That  day  which  saw  poor  Boldrick's  death  put  her  in 
a  conflicting  light  to  me.  Now  I  thought  I  saw  her  in 
her  unusual  gentleness,  again  an  unusual  irony,  an  almost 
flippant  and  cruel  worldiiness;  and  though  at  the  time 
she  was  most  touched  by  the  accident,  I  think  her  feel- 
ing of  horror  at  it  made  her  appear  to  speak  in  a  way 
which  showed  her  unpleasantly  to  Mr.  Devlin  and  his 
daughter.  It  may  be  however  that  Ruth  Devlin  saw 
further  into  her  character  than  I  guessed,  and  under- 
stood the  strange  contradictions  of  her  nature.  But  I 
shall,  I  suppose,  never  know  absolutely  about  that  ;  nor 
does  it  matter  much  now. 

The  day  succeeding  Phil's  death  was  Sunday,  and  the 
little  church  at  Viking  was  full.  Many  fishers  had  come 
over  from  Sunburst.  It  was  evident  that  people  expected 
Roscoe  to  make  some  reference  to  Phil's  death  in  his  ser- 
mon, or,  at  least,  have  a  part  of  the  service  appropriate. 
By  a  singular  chance  the  first  morning  lesson  was  David's 
lamentation  for  Saul  and  Jonathan.     Roscoe  had  a  fine 


204  MRS.    FALCHION. 

voice.  He  read  easily,  naturally— like  a  cultivated  lay- 
man, not  like  a  clergyman  ;  like  a  man  who  wished  to 
convey  the  simple  meaning  of  what  he  read,  reverently, 
honestly.  On  the  many  occasions  when  I  heard  him  read 
the  service,  I  noticed  that  he  never  changed  the  opening 
sentence,  though  there  were,  of  course,  others  from  which 
to  choose.  He  drew  the  people  to  their  feet  always  with 
these  words,  spoken  as  it  were  directly  to  them, — 

"  When  the  wicked  man  turneth  away  from  the  wicked- 
ness that  he  hath  committed,  and  doeth  that  which  is  lawful 
and  right,  he  shall  save  his  soul  alive!' 

I  noticed  this  morning  that  he  instantly  attracted  the 
attention  of  everyone,  and  held  it,  with  the  first  words 
of  the  lesson  : 

"  The  beauty  of  Israel  is  slain  upon  thy  high  places:  how 
are  the  mighty  fallen  !  ' ' 

It  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  people  at  first  almost  tried 
to  stop  breathing,  so  intense  was  the  feeling.  Mrs.  Fal- 
chion was  sitting  very  near  me,  and  though  she  had  worn 
her  veil  up  at  first,  as  I  uncharitably  put  it  then,  to  dis- 
concert him,  she  drew  it  rather  quickly  down  as  his 
reading  proceeded  ;  but,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  she  never 
took  her  eyes  off  his  face  through  the  whole  service  ; 
and,  impelled  in  spite  of  myself,  I  watched  her  closely. 
Though  Ruth  Devlin  was  sitting  not  far  from  her,  she 
scarcely  looked  that  way. 

Evidently  the  text  of  the  sermon  was  not  chosen  that 
it  might  have  some  association  with  Phil's  death,  but 
there  was  a  kind  of  simple  grandeur,  and  certainly  cheer- 
ful stalwartness,  in  his  interpretation  and  practical  ren- 
dering of  the  text  : 

"  Who  is  this  that  cometh  from  Edom,  with  dyed  gar- 
ments from  Bozra,  travelling  in  the  greatness  of  his  strength  ? 
I  am  he  that  speak  in  righteousness,  mighty  to  save." 

A  man  was  talking  to  men  sensibly,  directly,  quietly. 
It  was  impossible  10  resist  the  wholesome  eloquence  of 


MRS.    FALCHION.  205 

his  temperament ;  he  was  a  revelation  of  humanity  :  what 
he  said  had  life. 

I  said  to  myself,  as  I  had  before,  Is  it  possible  that 
this  man  ever  did  anything  unmanly  ? 

After  the  service  James  Devlin — with  Ruth — came 
to  Roscoe  and  myself,  and  asked  us  to  lunch  at  his 
house.  Roscoe  hesitated,  but  I  knew  it  was  better  for 
him  not  to  walk  up  the  hills  and  back  again  immedi- 
ately after  luncheon  ;  so  I  accepted  for  us  both ;  and 
Ruth  gave  me  a  grateful  look.  Roscoe  seemed  almost 
anxious  not  to  be  alone  with  Ruth, — not  from  any  cow- 
ardly feeling,  but  because  he  was  perplexed  by  the  old 
sense  of  coming  catastrophe  which,  indeed,  poor  chap, 
he  was  not  wild  in  feeling.  He  and  Mr.  Devlin  talked 
of  Phil's  funeral  and  the  arrangements  that  had  been 
made,  and  during  the  general  conversation  Ruth  and  I 
dropped  behind. 

Quite  abruptly  she  said  to  me  :  "  Who  is  Mrs.  Fal- 
chion ? " 

"  A  widow — it  is  said — rich,  unencumbered,"  I  as 
abruptly  answered. 

"  But  I  suppose  even  widows  may  have  pedigrees,  and 
be  conjugated  in  the  past  tense,"  was  the  cool  reply. 
She  drew  herself  up  a  little  proudly. 

I  was  greatly  astonished.  Here  was  a  girl  living 
most  of  her  life  in  these  mountains,  having  only  had  a 
few  years  of  social  life  in  the  East,  practising  with  con- 
siderable skill  those  arts  of  conversation  so  much  culti- 
vated in  metropolitan  drawing-rooms.  But  I  was  a  very 
dull  fellow  then,  and  had  yet  to  learn  that  women  may 
develop  in  a  day  to  wonderful  things. 

u  Well,"  I  said  in  reply,  "  I  suppose  not.  But  I  fear  I 
cannot  answer  regarding  the  pedigree,  nor  a  great  deal 
about  the  past,  for  I  only  met  her  a  little  over  a  year 
ago." 

"And  yet  I  have  imagined  that  you  knew  her  pretty 


206  MRS.    FALCHION. 

well,  and  that  Mr.  Roscoe  knew  her  even  better — per- 
haps," she  said  suggestively. 

"  That  is  so,"  I  tried  to  say  with  apparent  frankness, 
"  for  she  lived  in  the  South  Seas  with  her  father,  and 
Roscoe  knew  her  there." 

"  She  is  a  strange  woman,  and  quite  heartless  in  some 
ways  ;  and  yet,  do  you  know,  I  like  her  while  I  dislike 
her  ;  and  I  can't  tell  why." 

"  Don't  try  to  tell,"  I  answered,  "for  she  has  the  gift 
of  making  people  do  both. — I  think  she  likes  and  dislikes 
herself — as  well  as  others." 

"As  well — as  others,—"  she  replied  slowly.  "  Yes,  I 
think  I  have  noticed  that.  You  see,"  she  added,  "  I 
don't  look  at  people  as  most  girls  of  my  age  :  and 
perhaps  I  am  no  better  for  that.  But  Mrs.  Falchion's 
introduction  to  me  occurred  in  such  peculiar  circum- 
stances, and  the  coincidence  of  your  knowing  her  was  so 
strange,  that  my  interest  is  not  unnatural,  I  suppose." 

"On  the  contrary,"  I  said,  "I  am  only  surprised  that 
you  have  restrained  your  curiosity  so  much  and  so  long. 
It  was  all  very  strange  ;  though  the  meeting  was  quite 
to  be  expected,  as  Mrs.  Falchion  herself  explained  that 
day.  She  had  determined  on  coming  over  to  the  Pacific 
Coast ;  this  place  was  in  her  way  ;  it  is  a  fashionable 
resort ;  and  she  stood  a  good  chance  of  finding  old 
friends." 

"Yes—  of  finding— old  friends,"  was  the  abstracted 
reply.  "  I  like  Miss  Caron  her  companion  very  much 
better  than — most  women   I   have  met." 

This  was  not  what  she  was  going  to  say,  but  she 
checked  herself,  lest  she  might  be  suspected  of  thinking 
uncharitably  of  Mrs.  Falchion.  I,  of  course,  agreed  with 
her,  and  told  her  the  story  of  Gait  Roscoe  and  Hector 
Caron,  and  of  Justine's  earnestness  regarding  her  fan- 
cied debt  to  Roscoe. 

I  saw  that  the  poison  of  anxiety  had  entered  the  girl's 


MRS.    FALCHION.  2Q7 

mind  ;  and  it  might,  perhaps,  bear  fruit  of  no  engaging 
quality.  In  her  own  home,  however,  it  was  a  picture  to 
see  her  with  her  younger  sisters  and  brothers,  and  invalid 
mother.  She  went  about  very  brightly  and  sweetly 
among  them,  speaking  to  them  as  if  she  was  mother  to 
them  all,  angel  of  them  all,  domestic  court  for  them  all  ; 
as  indeed  she  was.  Here  there  seemed  no  disturbing 
element  in  her  ;  a  close  observer  might  even  have  said 
(and  in  this  case  I  fancy  I  was  that)  that  she  had  no  mind 
or  heart  for  anything  or  anybody  but  these  few  of  her 
blood  and  race.  Hers  was  a  fine  nature — high,  whole- 
some, unselfish.  Yet  it  struck  me  sadly  also,  to  see  how 
the  child-like  in  her,  and  her  young  spirit,  had  been  so 
early  set  to  the  task  of  defence  and  protection  :  a  mother 
at  whose  breasts  a  child  had  never  hung  ;  maternal,  but 
without  the  relieving  joys  of  maternity. 

I  know  that  she  would  carry  through  her  life  that  too 
watchful,  too  anxious  tenderness ;  that  to  her  last  day, 
she  would  look  back  and  not  remember  that  she  had  a 
childhood  once  ;  because,  while  yet  a  child  she  had  been 
made  into  a  woman. 

Such  of  the  daughters  of  men  make  life  beautiful  ;  but 
themselves  are  selfish  who  do  not  see  the  almost  intol- 
erable pathos  of  unselfishness  and  sacrifice.  At  the 
moment  I  was  bitter  with  the  thought  that,  if  Mrs.  Fal- 
chion determined  anything  which  could  steal  away  this 
girl's  happiness  from  her,  even  for  a  time,  I  should 
myself  seek  for  some  keen  revenge — which  was,  as  may 
appear,  in  my  power.  But  I  could  not  go  to  Mrs.  Fal- 
chion now  and  say, — "  You  intend  some  harm  to  these 
two  :  for  God's  sake  go  away  and  don't  trouble  them  !  " 
I  had  no  real  ground  for  making  such  a  request.  Be- 
sides, if  there  were  any  catastrophe,  any  trouble,  com- 
ing, or  possible,  that  might  hasten  it,  or,  at  least,  give  it 
point. 

I  could  only  wait.     I  had  laid  another  plan,  and  from 


205  MRS.    FALCHION. 

a  telegram  I  had  received  in  answer  to  one  I  had  sent,  I 
believed  it  was  working.  I  did  not  despair.  I  had,  in- 
deed, sent  a  cable  to  my  agent  in  England,  which  was  to 
be  forwarded  to  the  address  given  me  by  Boyd  Madras 
at  Aden.  I  had  got  a  reply  saying  that  Boyd  Madras  had 
sailed  for  Canada  by  the  Allan  Line  of  steamers.  I  had 
then  telegraphed  to  a  lawyer  I  knew  in  Montreal,  and 
he  had  replied  that  he  was  on  the  track  of  the  wanderer. 
All  Viking  and  Sunburst  turned  out  to  Phil  Boldrick's 
funeral.  Everything  was  done  that  he  had  requested. 
The  great  whistle  roared  painfully,  revolvers  and  guns 
were  fired  over  his  grave,  and  the  new-formed  corpora- 
tion appeared.  He  was  buried  on  the  top  of  a  foot  hill, 
which,  to  this  day,  is  known  as  Boldrick's  Own.  The 
grave  was  covered  by  an  immense  flat  stone  bearing  his 
name.  But  a  flag-staff  was  erected  near, — no  stouter  one 
stands  on  Beachy  Head  or  elsewhere, — and  on  it  was 
engraved  : — 

Phil  Boldrick,  buried  with  Municipal  Honors 

on  the  Thirtieth  day  of  June,  18S4. 

This,  to  his  Memory,  and  for  the  pride  of 

Viking  and  Sunburst. 

"  Padre,"  said  a  river-driver  to  Gait  Roscoe  after  the 
rites  were  finished,  "  that  was  a  man  you  could  trust." 

"  Padre,"  added  another,  "  that  was  a  man  you  could 
bank  on,  and  draw  your  interest  reg'lar.  He  never  done 
a  mean  thing  and  he  never  pal-ed  with  a  mean  man.  He 
wasn't  for  getting  his  teeth  on  edge  like  some  in  the 
valley.  He  didn't  always  side  with  the  majority,  and  he 
had  a  gift  of  doin'  things  on  the  square." 

Others  spoke  in  similar  fashion,  and  then  Viking  went 
back  to  work,  and  we  to  our  mountain  cottage. 

Many  days  passed  quietly.  I  saw  that  Gait  Roscoe 
wished  to  speak  to  me  on  the  subject  perplexing  him, 
but  I  did  not  help  him.  I  knew  that  it  would  come  in 
£ood   time,   and  the   farther  off   it  was  the   better.     I 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


209 


dreaded  to  hear  what  he  had  to  tell,  lest,  in  spite  of  my 
confidence  in  him,  it  should  really  be  a  thing,  which, 
if  made  public,  must  bring  ruin.  During  the  even- 
ings of  these  days  he  wrote  much  in  his  diary — the  very 
book  that  lies  by  me  now.  Writing  seemed  a  relief 
to  him,  for  he  was  more  cheerful  afterwards.  I  know 
that  he  had  received  letters  from  the  summer  hotel,  but 
whether  they  were  from  Mrs.  Falchion  or  Justine  Caron 
I  was  not  then  aware,  though  I  afterwards  came  to  know 
that  one  of  them  was  from  Justine,  asking  him  if  she 
might  call  on  him.  He  guessed  that  the  request  was  con- 
nected with  Hector  Caron's  death  ;  and,  of  course,  gave 
his  consent.  During  this  time  he  did  not  visit  Ruth 
Devlin,  nor  did  he  mention  her  name.  As  for  myself,  I 
was  sick  of  the  whole  business,  and  wished  it  well  over, 
whatever  the  result. 

1  make  here  a  few  extracts  from  Roscoe's  diary,  to 
show  the  state  of  his  mind  at  this  period  : — 

"  Can  a  man  never  get  away  from  the  consequences  of  his  wicked- 
ness, even  though  he  repents  ?  .  .  .  Restitution  is  necessary  as 
well  as  repentance. — But  when  one  cannot  make  restitution,  when  it 
is  impossible  ! — What  then  ?  I  suppose  one  has  to  reply,  Well,  you 
have  to  suffer,  that  is  all.  .  .  .  Poor  Alo  !  To  think  that  after 
all  these  years,  you  can  strike  me  ! 

"  There  is  something  malicious  in  the  way  Mercy  Falchion  crosses 
my  path.  What  she  knows,  she  knows  ; — and  what  she  can  do  if 
she  chooses,  I  must  endure. — I  cannot  love  Mercy  Falchion  again, 
and  that,  I  suppose,  is  the  last  thing  she  would  wish  now.  I  cannot 
bring  Alo  back.  But  how  does  that  concern  her?  Why  does  she 
hate  me  so  ?  For,  underneath  her  kindest  words, — and  they  are  kind 
sometimes, — I  can  detect  the  note  of  enmity,  of  calculating  scorn. 
.  .  .  I  wish  I  could  go  to  Ruth  and  tell  her  all,  and  ask  her  to 
decide  if  she  can  take  a  man  with  such  a  past.  .  .  .  What  a  thing 
it  is  to  have  had  a  clean  record  of  unflinching  manliness  at  one's 
back  ! " 

I  add  another  extract : 

"  Phil's  story  of  Danger  Mountain  struck  like  ice  at  my  heart. 
There  was  a  horrible  irony  in  the  thing  :  that  it  should  be  told  to 


2IO  MRS.    FALCHION. 

me,  of  all  the  world,  and  at  such  a  time  !  Some  would  say,  I  sup- 
pose, that  it  was  the  arrangement  of  Providence.  Not  to  speak  it 
profanely,  it  seems  to  be  the  achievement  of  the  devil.  The  torture 
was  too  malicious  for  God.     .     .     . 

"  Phil's  letter  has  gone  to  his  pal  at  Danger  Mountain.     .     .     ." 

The  fourth  day  after  the  funeral  Justine  Caron  came  to 
see  Gait  Roscoe.  This  was  the  substance  of  their  con- 
versation, as  I  came  to  know  long  afterwards. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said,  "  I  have  come  to  pay  something 
of  a  debt  which  I  owe  to  you.  It  is  a  long  time  since  you 
gave  my  poor  Hector  burial,  but  I  have  never  forgotten, 
and  I  have  brought  you  at  last — you  must  not  shake  your 
head  so— the  money  you  spent.  .  .  .  But  you  must 
take  it.  I  should  be  miserable  if  you  did  not.  The 
money  is  all  that  I  can  repay  ;  the  kindness  is  for  mem- 
ory and  gratitude  always." 

He  looked  at  her  wonderingly,  earnestly,  she  seemed 
so  unworldly,  standing  there,  her  life's  ambition  not  stir- 
ring beyond  duty  to  her  dead.  If  goodness  makes  beauty, 
she  was  beautiful  ;  and  yet,  besides  all  that,  she  had  a 
warm  absorbing  eye,  a  soft  rounded  cheek,  and  she  carried 
in  her  face  the  light  of  a  cheerful,  engaging  spirit. 

"  Will  it  make  you  happier  if  I  take  the  money  ?  "  he 
said  at  last,  and  his  voice  showed  how  she  had  moved 
him. 

"  So  much  happier  !  "  she  answered,  and  she  put  a  roll 
of  notes  into  his  hand. 

"  Then  I  will  take  it,"  he  replied,  with  a  manner  not 
too  serious,  and  he  looked  at  the  notes  carefully  ;  "  but 
only  what  I  actually  spent,  remember  ;  what  I  told  you 
when  you  wrote  me  at  Hector's  death  ;  not  this  ample 
interest.  You  forget,  Miss  Caron,  that  your  brother  was 
my  friend." 

"  No,  I  cannot  forget  that.  It  lives  with  me,"  she 
rejoined  softly.  But  she  took  back  the  surplus  notes. 
"  And  I  have  my  gratitude  left  still,"  she  added  smiling. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  2  11 

"  Believe  me  there  is  no  occasion  for  gratitude.  Why, 
what  less  could  one  do  ?  " 

"  One  could  pass  by  on  the  other  side." 

"  He  was  not  fallen  among  thieves,"  was  his  reply,  "  he 
was  among  Englishmen,  the  old  allies  of  the  French." 

"  But  the  Priests  and  the  Levites,  people  of  his  own 
country — Frenchmen — passed  him  by.  They  were  in- 
famous in  falsehood,  cruel  to  him  and  to  me. — You  are 
an  Englishman  ;  you  have  heart  and  kindness." 

He  hesitated,  then  he  gravely  said  :  "  Don't  trust  Eng- 
lishmen more  than  you  trust  your  own  countrymen.  We 
are  selfish  even  in  our  friendships  often.  We  stick  to  one 
person,  and  to  benefit  that  one  we  sacrifice  others.  Have 
you  found  all  Englishmen — and  women  unselfish  ?  "  He 
looked  at  her  steadily  ;  but  immediately  repented  that 
he  had  asked  the  question,  for  he  had  in  his  mind  one 
whom  they  both  knew,  too  well,  perhaps  ;  and  he  added 
quickly, — "  You  see,  I  am  not  kind." 

They  were  standing  now  in  the  sunlight  just  outside 
the  house.  His  hands  were  thrust  down  in  the  pockets 
of  his  linen  coat ;  her  hands  opening  and  shutting  her 
parasol  slightly.  They  might,  from  their  appearance, 
have  been  talking  of  very  inconsequent  things. 

Her  eyes  lifted  sorrowfully  to  his.  "Ah,  monsieur," 
she  rejoined,  "  there  are  two  times,  when  one  must  fear  a 
woman."  She  answered  his  question  more  directly  than 
he  could  have  conjectured.  But  she  felt  that  she  must 
warn  him. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  he  said. 

"  Of  course  you  do  not.  Only  women  themselves  un- 
derstand that  the  two  times  when  one  must  fear  a  woman 
are  when  she  hates,  and  when  she  loves — after  a  kind. 
When  she  gets  wicked  or  mad  enough  to  hate,  either 
through  jealousy  or  because  she  can't  love  where  she 
would,  she  is  merciless.  She  does  not  know  the  honor 
of  the  game.     She  has  no  pity.     Then,  sometimes  when 


212  MRS.    FALCHION. 

she  loves  in  a  way,  she  is,  as  you  say,  horribly  selfish.  I 
mean  a  love  which  is — not  possible.  Then  she  does  some 
mad  act — all  women  are  a  little  mad  sometimes  ; — most  of 
us  wish  to  be  good,  but  we  are  quicksilver.     .     .     ." 

Roscoe's  mind  had  been  working  fast.  He  saw  she 
meant  to  warn  him  against  Mrs.  Falchion.  His  face 
flushed  slightly.  He  knew  that  Justine  had  thought 
well  of  him,  and  now  he  knew  also  that  she  suspected 
something  not  creditable  or,  at  least,  hazardous  in  his 
life. 

"  And  the  man — the  man  whom  the  woman  hates  ?  " 

"  When  the  woman  hates — and  loves  too,  the  man  is  in 
danger." 

"  Do  you  know  of  such  a  man  ?  "  he  almost  shrink- 
ingly  said. 

"  If  I  did  I  would  say  to  him,  The  world  is  wide. 
There  is  no  glory  in  fighting  a  woman  who  won't  be 
fair  in  battle.  She  will  say  what  may  appear  to  be  true, 
but  what  she  knows  in  her  own  heart  to  be  false — false 
and  bad." 

Roscoe  now  saw  that  Justine  had  more  than  an  ink- 
ling of  his  story. 

He  said  calmly  :  "  You  would  advise  that  man  to  flee 
from  danger  ?  " 

"Yes,  to  flee,"  she  replied  hurriedly,  with  a  strange 
anxiety  in  her  eyes;  "for  sometimes  a  woman  is  not 
satisfied  with  words  that  kill.  She  becomes  less  than 
human,  and  is  like  Jael." 

Justine  knew  that  Mrs.  Falchion  held  a  sword  over 
Roscoe's  career  ;  she  guessed  that  Mrs.  Falchion  both 
cared  for  him  and  hated  him  too  ;  but  she  did  not  know 
the  true  reason  of  the  hatred, — that  only  came  out  after- 
wards. Woman-like  she  exaggerated  in  order  that  she 
might  move  him  ;  but  her  motive  was  good,  and  what 
she  said  was  not  out  of  keeping  with  the  facts  of  life. 

"  The  man's  life  even  mi^ht  be  in  danger  ?  "  he  asked. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  213 

"It  might." 

"  But  surely  that  is  not  so  dreadful,"  he  still  said 
calmly.     "  Death  is  not  the  worst  of  evils." 

"  No,  not  the  worst ;  one  has  to  think  of  the  evil  word 
as  well.  The  evil  word  can  be  outlived  ;  but  the  man 
must  think  of  those  who  really  love  him, — who  would 
die  to  save  him, — and  whose  hearts  would  break  if  he 
were  killed.  Love  can  outlive  slander,  but  it  is  bitter 
when  it  has  to  outlive  both  slander  and  death.  It  is 
easy  to  love  with  joy  so  long  as  both  live,  though  there 
are  worlds  between.  Thoughts  fly  and  meet ;  but  Death 
makes  the  grand  division.  ...  Love  can  only  live 
in  the  pleasant  world." 

Very  abstractedly  he  said  :  "  Is  it  a  pleasant  world  to 
you  ? " 

She  did  not  reply  directly  to  that,  but  answered  : 
"  Monsieur,  if  you  know  of  such  a  man  as  I  speak  of, 
warn  him  to  fly."  And  she  raised  her  eyes  from  the 
ground  and  looked  earnestly  at  him.  Now  her  face  was 
slightly  flushed,  she  looked  almost  beautiful. 

"  I  know  of  such  a  man,"  he  replied,  "  but  he  will  not 
go.  He  has  to  answer  to  his  own  soul  and  his  con- 
science. He  is  not  without  fear,  but  it  is  only  fear  for 
those  who  care  for  him,  be  they  ever  so  few.  And  he 
hopes  that  they  will  be  brave  enough  to  face  his  misery, 
if  it  must  come.  For  we  know  that  courage  has  its  hour 
of  comfort.  .  .  .  When  such  a  man  as  you  speak  of 
has  his  dark  hour,  he  will  stand  firm." 

Then  with  a  great  impulse  he  added  :  "  This  man 
whom  I  know,  did  wrong,  but  he  was  falsely  accused  of 
doing  a  still  greater.  The  consequence  of  the  first  thing 
followed  him.  He  could  never  make  restitution.  Years 
went  by.  Someone  knew  that  dark  spot  in  his  life— his 
Nemesis." 

"  The  worst  Nemesis  in  this  life,  monsieur,  is  always 
a  woman,"  she  interrupted. 


214  MRS-    FALCHION. 

"  Perhaps   she  is  the   surest,"  he  continued.     "  The 

woman  faced  him  in  the  hour  of  his  peace  and "  he 

paused.      His  voice  was  husky. 

"  Yes,  'and,'  monsieur  ? " 

"  And  he  knows  that  she  would  ruin  him,  and  kill  his 
heart  and  destroy  his  life." 

"  The  waters  of  Marah  are  bitter,"  she  murmured,  and 
she  turned  her  face  away  from  him  to  the  woods.  There 
was  no  trouble  there.  The  birds  were  singing,  black- 
squirrels  were  jumping  from  bough  to  bough,  and  they 
could  hear  the  tapping  of  the  woodpecker.  She  slowly 
drew  on  her  gloves,  as  if  for  occupation. 

He  spoke  at  length  as  though  thinking  out  loud  : 
"But  he  knows  that,  whatever  comes,  life  has  had  for 
him  more  compensations  than  he  deserves.  For,  in  his 
trouble,  a  woman  came,  and  said  kind  words,  and  would 
have  helped  him  if  she  could." 

"  There  were  two  women,"  she  said  solemnly. 

"  Two  women  ? "  he  repeated  slowly. 

"  The  one  stayed  in  her  home  and  prayed,  and  the 
other  came." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  he  said  :  and  he  spoke  truly. 

"  Love  is  always  praying  for  its  own,  therefore  one 
woman  prayed  at  home.  The  other  woman  who  came 
was  full  of  gratitude,  for  the  man  was  noble,  she  owed 
him  a  great  debt,  and  she  believed  in  him  always.  She 
knew  that  if  at  any  time  in  his  life  he  had  done  wrong, 
the  sin  was  without  malice  or  evil." 

"  The  woman  is  gentle  and  pitiful  with  him,  God 
knows." 

She  spoke  quietly  now,  and  her  gravity  looked  strange 
in  one  so  young. 

"God  knows  she  is  just,  and  would  see  him  justly 
treated.  She  is  so  far  beneath  him  !  and  yet  one  can 
serve  a  friend  though  one  is  humble  and  poor. " 

"  How   strange,"  he   rejoined,   "  that   a   man   should 


MRS.    FALCHION.  215 

think  himself  miserable,  who  is  befriended  in  such  a  way  ! 
.  .  .  Justine  Caron,  he  will  carry  to  his  grave  the 
kindness  of  this  woman." 

"  Monsieur,"  she  added  humbly,  yet  with  a  brave  light 
in  her  eyes,  "it  is  good  to  care  whether  the  wind  blows 
bitter  or  kind.  Every  true  woman  is  a  mother,  though 
she  have  no  child.  She  longs  to  protect  the  suffering, 
because  to  protect  is  in  her  so  far  as  God  is.  .  .  . 
Well,  this  woman  cares  that  way.  .  .  ."  She  held 
out  her  hand  to  say  good-by.  Her  look  was  simple, 
direct,  and  kind.  Their  parting  words  were  few  and 
unremarkable. 

Roscoe  watched  Justine  Caron  as  she  passed  out  into 
the  shade  of  the  woods,  and  he  said  to  himself, — "  Grati- 
tude like  that  is  a  wonderful  thing."  He  should  have 
said  something  else,  but  he  did  not  know,  and  she  did 
not  wish  him  to  know  :  and  he  never  knew. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

A    DUEL    IN    ARCADY. 

The  more  I  thought  of  Mrs.  Falchion's  attitude  towards 
Roscoe,  the  more  I  was  puzzled.  But  I  had  at  last 
reduced  the  position  to  this  : — Years  ago  Roscoe  had 
cared  for  her  and  she  had  not  cared  for  him.  Angered 
or  indignant  by  her  treatment  of  him,  Roscoe's  affections 
declined  unworthily  elsewhere.  Then  came  a  catastrophe 
of  some  kind,  in  which  Alo,  (whoever  she  might  be,)  suf- 
fered. The  secret  of  this  catastrophe  Mrs.  Falchion,  as 
I  believed,  held.  There  was  a  parting,  a  lapse  of  years, 
and  then  the  meeting  on  the  Fulvia :  with  it  partial 
restoration  of  Mrs.  Falchion's  influence,  then  its  decline, 
and  then  a  complete  change  of  position.  It  was  now 
Mrs.  Falchion  that  cared  and  Roscoe  that  shunned.     It 


2l6  MRS.    FALCHION. 

perplexed  me  that  there  seemed  to  be  behind  Mrs.  Fal- 
chion's present  regard  for  Roscoe,  some  weird  expression 
of  vengeance,  as  though  somehow  she  had  been  wronged, 
and  it  was  her  duty  to  punish.  In  no  other  way  was  the 
position  definable.  That  Roscoe  would  never  marry  her 
was  certain  to  my  mind.  That  he  could  not  marry  her 
now,  was  also  certain — to  me  ; — I  had  the  means  to  pre- 
vent it.  That  she  wished  to  marry  him  I  was  not  sure, 
though  she  undoubtedly  cared  for  him.  Remained,  there- 
fore, the  supposition  that  if  he  cared  for  her  she  would  do 
him  no  harm,  as  to  his  position.  But  if  he  married  Ruth, 
disaster  would  come — Roscoe  himself  acknowledged  that 
she  held  the  key  of  his  fortunes. 

Upon  an  impulse  and  as  a  last  resort,  I  had  taken  action 
whereby  in  some  critical  moment  I  might  be  able  to  wield 
a  power  over  Mrs.  Falchion.  I  was  playing  a  blind  game, 
but  it  was  the  only  card  I  held.  I  had  heard  from  the 
lawyer  in  Montreal  that  Madras  under  another  name  had 
gone  to  the  prairie  country  to  enter  the  mounted  police.  I 
had  then  telegraphed  to  Winnepeg,  but  had  got  no  answer. 

I  had  seen  her  many  times,  but  we  had  never,  except 
very  remotely,  touched  upon  the  matter  which  was  upper- 
most in  both  our  minds.  It  was  not  my  way  to  force  a 
situation.  I  knew  that  my  opportunity  would  come 
wherein  to  spy  upon  the  mind  of  the  enemy.  It  came. 
On  the  evening  that  Justine  Caron  called  upon  Roscoe  I 
accidentally  met  Mrs.  Falchion  in  the  grounds  of  the 
hotel.  She  was  with  several  people,  and  as  I  spoke  to" 
her  she  made  a  little  gesture  of  invitation.  I  went  over, 
was  introduced  to  her  companions,  and  then  she  said  : 

"  Dr.  Marmion,  I  have  not  yet  made  that  visit  to  the 
salmon  fisheries  at  Sunburst.  Unfortunately  on  the  days 
when  I  called  on  Miss  Devlin  my  time  was  limited.  But 
now  I  have  a  thirst  for  adventure,  and  time  hangs  heavy. 
Will  you  perform  your  old  office  of  escort  and  join  a  party 
which  we  can  make  up  here  to  go  to-morrow  ? " 


MRS.    FALCHION.  217 

I  had  little  love  for  Mrs.  Falchion,  but  I  consented, 
because  it  seemed  to  me  the  chance  had  come  for  an 
effective  talk  with  her,  and  suggested  that  we  should  go 
late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  and  remain  till  night 
and  see  the  Indians,  the  half-breeds,  and  white  fishermen 
working  by  torch-light  on  the  river.  The  proposition 
was  accepted  with  delight. 

Then  the  conversation  turned  upon  the  feud  that 
existed  between  Viking  and  Sunburst,  the  river-drivers 
and  the  fishers.  During  the  last  few  days,  owing  to  the 
fact  that  there  were  a  great  many  idle  rivermen  about,  the 
river-driving  for  the  season  being  done,  there  had  been 
more  than  one  quarrel  of  a  serious  nature  at  Sunburst. 
It  had  needed  a  great  deal  of  watchfulness  on  the  part 
of  Mr.  Devlin  and  his  supporters  to  prevent  fighting.  In 
Sunburst  itself,  Mr.  Devlin  had  much  personal  influence. 
He  was  a  man  of  exceedingly  strong  character,  bold, 
powerful,  persuasive.  But  this  year  there  had  been  a 
large  number  of  rough  adventurous  characters  among 
the  rivermen,  and  they  seemed  to  take  delight  in  making 
sport  of,  and  even  interfering  with,  the  salmon-fishers. 
We  talked  of  these  things  for  some  time,  and  then  I  took 
my  leave.  As  I  went,  Mrs.  Falchion  stepped  after  me, 
tapped  me  on  the  arm,  and  said  in  a  slow  indolent  tone  : 

"Whenever  you  and  I  meet,  Dr.  Marmion,  something 
happens — something  strange.  What  particular  catas- 
trophe have  you  arranged  for  to-morrow  ?  For  you  are, 
you  know,  the  chorus  to  the  drama." 

"  Don't  spoil  the  play,"  I  said,  "  by  anticipation." 

"  One  gets  pretty  weary  of  tragedy,"  she  retorted. 
"  Comedy  would  be  a  relief.      Couldn't  you  manage  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  to-morrow,"  I  said,  "  as  to  a 
comedy.  But  I  promise  you  that  one  of  these  days  I'll 
present  to  you  the  very  finest  comedy  imaginable." 

"  You  speak  oracularly,"  she  said,  "  still,  you  are  a 
professor,  and  professors  always  pose.     But  now,  to  be 


2l8  MRS.    FALCHION. 

perfectly  frank  with  you,  I  do  not  believe  that  any  com- 
edy you  could  arrange  would  be  as  effective  as  your 
own." 

"  You  have  read  Much  Ado  About  Nothing"  I  said. 

11  Oh,  it's  as  good  as  that,  is  it  ? "  she  asked. 

"Well,  it  has  just  as  good  a  final  situation,"  I  an- 
swered. She  seemed  puzzled,  for  she  saw  I  spoke  with 
some  under-current  of  meaning.  "Mrs.  Falchion,"  I 
said  to  her  suddenly  and  earnestly :  "  I  wish  you  to 
think  between  now  and  to-morrow  of  what  I  am  just 
going  to  say  to  you." 

"  It  sounds  like  the  task  set  an  undergraduate,  but  go 
on,"  she  said. 

"I  wish  you  to  think,"  said  I,  "of  the  fact  that  I 
helped  to  save  your  life." 

She  flushed  ;  an  indignant  look  shot  up  in  her  face  and 
she  said,  her  voice  vibrating  : 

"  What  man  would  have  done  less  !  "  Then  almost 
immediately  after,  as  though  repenting  of  what  she  had 
said,  she  continued  in  a  lower  tone  and  with  a  kind  of 
impulsiveness  uncommon  to  her,— "But  you  had  cour- 
age, and  I  appreciate  that ;  still,  do  not  ask  too  much. 
Good-night." 

We  parted  at  that,  and  did  not  meet  again  until  the 
next  afternoon  when  I  joined  her  and  her  party  at  the 
summer  hotel.    Together  we  journeyed  down  to  Sunburst. 

It  was  the  height  of  the  salmon  fishing  season.  Sun- 
burst lay  cloyed  among  the  products  of  field  and  forest 
and  stream.  At  Viking  one  got  the  impression  of  a 
strong  pioneer  life,  vibrant,  eager,  and  with  a  touch  of 
Arcady.  But  viewed  from  a  distance  Sunburst  seemed 
Arcady  itself.  It  was  built  in  green  pastures,  which 
stretched  back  on  one  side  of  the  river  smooth,  luscious, 
undulating  to  the  foot-hills.  This  was  on  one  side  the 
Whi-Whi  River.  On  the  other  side  was  a  narrow  mar- 
gin, and  then  a  sheer  wall  of  hills  in  exquisite  verdure. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  2IQ 

The  houses  were  of  wood  and  chiefly  painted  white, 
sweet  and  cool  in  the  vast  greenness.  Cattle  wandered 
shoulders  deep  in  the  rich  grass,  and  fruit  of  all  kinds 
was  to  be  had  for  the  picking.  The  population  was 
strangely  mixed.  Men  had  drifted  here  from  all  parts 
of  the  world,  sometimes  with  their  families,  sometimes 
without  them.  Many  of  them  had  settled  here  after 
mining  at  the  Caribou  field  and  other  places  on  the 
Frazer  River.  Mexican,  Portuguese,  Canadian,  Califor- 
nian,  Australian,  Chinaman,  and  Coolie  lived  here,  side 
by  side,  at  ease  in  the  quiet  land,  following  a  primitive 
occupation  with  primitive  methods. 

One  could  pick  out  the  Indian  section  of  the  village, 
because  not  far  from  it  was  the  Indian  graveyard,  with 
its  scaffolding  of  poles  and  brush  and  its  offerings  for 
the  dead.  There  were  almost  interminable  rows  of 
scaffolding  on  the  river's  edge,  and  upon  the  high  bank 
where  hung  the  salmon  drying  in  the  sun.  The  river  as 
it  ambled  along,  here  over  shallows,  there  over  rapids 
and  tiny  water-falls,  was  the  pathway  for  millions  and 
millions  of  salmon  upon  a  pilgrimage  to  the  West 
and  North — to  the  happy  hunting  grounds  of  spawn. 
They  came  in  droves  so  thick  at  times  that,  crowding  up 
the  little  creeks  which  ran  into  the  river,  they  filled  them 
so  completely  as  to  dam  up  the  water  and  make  the 
courses  a  solid  mass  of  living  and  dead  fish.  In  the  river 
itself  they  climbed  the  rapids  and  leaped  the  tiny  water- 
falls with  incredible  certainty  ;  except  where  man  had 
prepared  his  traps  for  them.  Sometimes  these  traps 
were  weirs  or  by-washes,  made  of  long  lateral  tanks  of 
wicker-work.  Down  among  the  boulders  near  the  shore, 
scaffoldings  were  raised,  and  from  these  the  fishermen 
with  nets  and  wicker-work  baskets  caught  the  fish  as 
they  came  up. 

We  wandered  about  during  the  afternoon  immensely 
interested  in  all  that  we  saw.      During  that  time   the 


220  MRS.    FALCHION. 

party  was  much  together,  and  my  conversation  with  Mrs. 
Falchion  was  general.  We  had  supper  at  a  quiet  little 
tavern,  idled  away  an  hour  in  drinking  in  the  pleasant 
scene ;  and  when  dusk  came  went  out  again  to  the  banks 
of  the  river. 

From  the  time  we  left  the  tavern  to  wander  by  the 
river  I  managed  to  be  a  good  deal  alone  with  Mrs. 
Falchion.  I  do  not  know  whether  she  saw  that  I  was 
anxious  to  speak  with  her  privately,  but  I  fancy  she 
did.  Whatever  we  had  to  say  must,  in  the  circum- 
stances, however  serious,  be  kept  superficially  unim- 
portant. And,  as  it  happened,  our  serious  conference 
was  carried  on  with  an  air  of  easy  gossip,  combined  with 
a  not  artificial  interest  in  all  we  saw.  And  there  was 
much  to  see.  Far  up  and  down  the  river  the  fragrant 
dusk  was  spotted  with  the  smoky  red  light  of  torches, 
and  the  atmosphere  shook  with  shadows,  through  which 
ran  the  song  of  the  river,  more  amiable  than  the  song  of 
the  saw,  and  the  low  weird  cry  of  the  Indians  and  white 
men  as  they  toiled  for  salmon  in  the  glare  of  the  torches. 
Here  upon  a  scaffolding  a  half  dozen  swung  their  nets 
and  baskets  in  the  swift  river,  hauling  up  with  their 
very  long  poles  thirty  or  forty  splendid  fish  in  an  hour  ; 
there  at  a  little  water-fall  in  great  baskets  sunk  into  the 
water  a  couple  of  Indians  caught  and  killed  the  salmon 
that  in  trying  to  leap  the  fall  plumped  into  the  wicker- 
cage  ;  beyond,  others,  more  idle  and  less  enterprising, 
speared  the  finny  travellers,  thus  five  hundred  miles  from 
home — the  brave  Pacific. 

Upon  the  banks  the  cleaning  and  curing  went  on,  the 
women  and  children  assisting,  and  as  the  Indians  and 
halfbreeds  worked  they  sang  either  the  wild  Indian  melo- 
dies, snatches  of  brave  old  songs  of  the  voyageurs  of  a 
past  century,  or  hymns  taught  by  the  Jesuit  missionaries 
in  the  persons  of  such  noble  men  as  Pere  Lacombe  and 
Pere  Durie.u,  who  have  wandered  up  and  down  the  vast 


MRS.    FALCHION.  221 

plains  of  both  sides  of  the  Rockies  telling  an  old  story 
in  a  picturesque  heroic  way.  These  old  hymns  were 
written  in  Chinook,  that  strange  language,— French, 
English,  Spanish,  Indian,— arranged  by  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company,  which  is,  like  the  wampum-belt,  a  com- 
mon tongue  for  tribes  and  peoples  not  speaking  any 
language  but  their  own.  They  were  set  to  old  airs — 
lullabies,  chansons,  barcarolles,  serenades,  taken  out  of 
the  folk  lore  of  many  lands.  Time  and  again  had  these 
simple  arcadian  airs  been  sung  as  a  prelude  to  some  tribal 
act  that  would  not  bear  the  search  light  of  civilization- 
little  by  the  Indians  east  of  the  Rockies,  for  they  have 
hard  hearts  and  fierce  tongues,  but  much  by  the  Shuswaps, 
Siwashes,  and  other  tribes  of  the  Pacific  slope,  whose 
natures  are  for  peace  more  than  for  war  ;  who,  one  an- 
tique day,  drifted  across  from  Japan  or  the  Corea,  and 
never,  even  in  their  wild  nomadic  state,  forgot  their  skill 
and  craft  in  wood  and  gold  and  silver. 

We  sat  on  the  shore  and  watched  the  scene  for  a  time 
saying  nothing.  Now  and  again,  as  from  scaffolding  to 
scaffolding,  from  boat  to  boat,  and  from  house  to  house, 
the  Chinook  song  ran  and  was  caught  up  in  a  slow  mono- 
tone, so  not  interfering  with  the  toil,  there  came  the  sound 
of  an  Indian  drum  beaten  indolently,  or  the  rattle  of  dry 
hard  sticks, — a  fantastic  accompaniment. 

"  Does  it  remind  you  of  the  South  Seas  ?  "  I  said  to 
Mrs.  Falchion,  as,  with  her  chin  on  her  hand,  she  watched 
the  scene. 

She  drew  herself  up,  almost  with  an  effort,  as  though 
she  had  been  lost  in  thought,  and  looked  at  me  curi- 
ously for  a  moment.  She  seemed  trying  to  call  back 
her  mind  to  consider  my  question.  Presently  she  an- 
swered me  :  "  Very  little.  There  is  something  finer, 
stronger  here.  The  atmosphere  has  more  nerve,  the  life 
more  life.  This  is  not  a  land  for  the  idle  or  vicious, 
pleasant  as  it  is." 


222  MRS.    FALCHION. 

"  What  a  thinker  you  are,  Mrs.  Falchion  !  " 

She  seemed  to  recollect  herself  suddenly.  Her  voice 
took  on  an  inflection  of  satire.  "  You  say  it  with  the  air 
of  a  discoverer.  With  Columbus  and  Hervey  and  you, 
the  world-—"  She  stopped,  laughing  softly  at  the 
thrust,  and  moved  the  dust  about  with  her  foot. 

"  In  spite  of  the  sarcasm  I  am  going  to  add  that  I  feel 
a  personal  satisfaction  in  your  being  a  woman  who  does 
think,  and  acts  more  on  thought  than  impulse." 

"  '  Personal  satisfaction  '  sounds  very  royal  and  august. 
It  is  long,  I  imagine,  since  you  took  a — personal  satisfac- 
tion— in  me." 

I  was  not  to  be  daunted.  "  People  who  think  a  good 
deal  and  live  a  fresh  out-door  life — you  do  that— natu- 
rally act  most  fairly  and  wisely  in  time  of  difficulty — and 
contretemps." 

"  But  I  had  the  impression  that  you  thought  I  acted 
unfairly  and  unwisely— at  such  times  !  " 

We  had  come  exactly  where  I  wanted.  In  our  minds 
we  were  both  looking  at  those  miserable  scenes  on  the 
Fulvia,  when  Madras  sought  to  adjust  the  accounts  of 
life  and  sorely  muddled  them. 

"  But,"  said  I,  "you  are  not  the  same  woman  that  you 
were." 

"  Indeed,  Sir  Oracle  !  "  she  answered  :  "  and  by  what 
necromancy  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  By  none.  I  think  you  are  sorry  now— I  hope  you 
are — for  what  ■ -" 

She  interrupted  me  indignantly.  "You  go  too  far. 
You  are  almost— insolent.  You  said  once  that  the 
matter  should  be  buried,  and  yet  here  you  work  for  an 
opportunity,  Heaven  knows  why,  to  place  me  at  a  dis- 
advantage !  " 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  answered  ;  "  I  said  that  I  would  never 
bring  up  those  wretched  scenes  unless  there  was  cause. 
There  is  cause." 


MRS.    FALCHION.  223 

She  got  to  her  feet.  "  What  cause — what  possible 
cause  can  there  be  ?  " 

I  met  her  eye  firmly.  "  I  am  bound  to  stand  by  my 
friend,"  I  said.     "And  I  can  and  will  stand  by  him." 

"  If  it  is  a  game  of  drawn  swords,  look  out !  "  she 
retorted.  "  You  speak  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  common 
adventuress.  You  mistake  me  and  forget  that  you — of 
all  men — have  little  margin  of  high  morality  on  which 
to  speculate." 

"  No,  I  do  not  forget  that,"  I  said,  "  nor  do  I  think  of 
you  as  an  adventuress.  But  I  am  sure  you  hold  a  power 
over  my  friend,  and " 

She  stopped  me.  "  Not  one  more  word  on  the  sub- 
ject. You  are  mad  to  suppose  this  and  that.  Be  wise  : 
do  not  irritate  and  annoy  a  woman  like  me.  It  were 
better  to  please  me  than  to  preach  to  me." 

"  Mrs.  Falchion,"  I  said  firmly,  "  I  wish  to  please  you, 
— so  well  that  some  day  you  will  feel  that  I  have  been  a 
good  friend  to  you  as  well  as  to  him " 

Again  she  interrupted  me.  "  You  talk  in  foolish  rid- 
dles.    No  good  can  come  of  this." 

"  I  can't  believe  that,"  I  urged,  "for  when  once  your 
heart  is  moved  by  the  love  of  a  man,  you  will  be  just, 
and  then  the  memory  of  another  man  who  loved  you  and 
sinned  for  you " 

"  Oh,  you  coward  !  '"  she  broke  out  scornfully  :  "  you 
coward  to  persist  in  this  !  " 

I  made  a  little  motion  of  apology  with  my  hand,  and 
was  silent.  I  was  satisfied.  I  felt  that  I  had  touched 
her  as  no  words  of  mine  had  ever  touched  her  before. 
If  she  became  emotional,  was  vulnerable  in  her  feelings, 
I  knew  that  Roscoe's  peace  might  be  assured.  That 
she  loved  Roscoe  now  I  was  quite  certain.  Through 
the  mists  I  could  see  a  way,  even  if  I  failed  to  find 
Madras  and  arrange  another  surprising  situation.  She 
was  breathing  hard  with  excitement. 


224  MRS.    FALCHION. 

Presently  she  said  with  incredible  quietness  :  "  Do  not 
force  me  to  do  hard  things.    I  have  a  secret." 

"  I  have  a  secret  too,"  I  answered.  "  Let  us  compro- 
mise." 

"  I  do  not  fear  your  secret,"  she  answered.  She 
thought  I  was  referring  to  her  husband's  death. 

"  Well,"  I  replied,  "  I  honestly  hope  you  never  will. 
That  would  be  a  good  day  for  you." 

"  Let  us  go,"  she  said  ;  then,  presently  :  "  No,  let  us 
sit  here  and  forget  that  we  have  been  talking." 

I  was  satisfied.  We  sat  down.  She  watched  the  scene 
silently  and  I  watched  her.  I  felt  that  it  would  be  my 
lot  to  see  stranger  things  happen  to  her  than  I  had 
seen  before  :  but  all  in  a  different  fashion.  I  had  more 
hope  for  my  friend,  for  Ruth  Devlin,  for ! 

I  then  became  silent  even  to  myself.  The  weltering 
river,  the  fishers  and  their  labor  and  their  songs,  the  tall 
dark  hills,  the  deep  gloomy  pastures,  the  flaring  lights, 
were  then  in  a  dream  before  me  :  but  I  was  thinking, 
planning. 

As  we  sat  there,  we  heard  noises  not  very  harmonious 
interrupting  the  song  of  the  salmon-fishers.  We  got  up 
to  see.  A  score  of  river-drivers  were  marching  down 
through  the  village,  mocking  the  fishers  and  making  wild 
mirth.  The  Indians  took  little  notice,  but  the  half- 
breeds  and  white  fishers  were  restless. 

"  There  will  be  trouble  here  one  day,"  said  Mrs.  Fal- 
chion. 

"  A  free  fight  which  will  clear  the  air,"  I  said. 

"  I  would  like  to  see  it — it  would  be  picturesque  at 
least,"  she  added  cheerfully  :  "  for  I  suppose  no  lives 
would  be  lost." 

"One  cannot  tell,"  I  answered;  "lives  don't  count  so 
much  in  new  lands." 

"Killing  is  hateful,  but  I  like  to  see  courage." 

And  she  did  see  it. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  225 


CHAPTER    XVII. 


RIDING     THE    REEFS. 


The  next  afternoon  Roscoe  was  sitting  on  the  coping 
deep  in  thought,  when  Ruth  rode  up  with  her  father, 
dismounted,  and  came  upon  him  so  quietly  that  he  did 
not  hear  her.  I  was  standing  in  the  trees  a  little  distance 
away. 

She  spoke  to  him  once,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  hear. 
She  touched  his  arm.     He  got  to  his  feet. 

"  You  were  so  engaged  that  you  did  not  hear  me," 
she  said. 

"  The  noise  of  the  rapids  !  "  he  answered  after  a 
strange  pause,  "and  your  footstep  is  very  light." 

She  leaned  her  chin  on  her  hand,  rested  against  the 
rail  of  the  coping,  looked  meditatively  into  the  torrent 
below,  and  replied  :  "  Is  it  so  light  ?  "  Then,  after  a 
pause,  "  You  have  not  asked  me  how  I  came,  who  came 
with  me,  nor  why  I  am  here." 

"  It  was  first  necessary  for  me  to  conceive  the  delight- 
ful fact  that  you  are  here,"  he  said  in  a  dazed,  and, 
therefore,  not  convincing  tone. 

She  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes.  "  Please  do  not  pay 
me  the  ill  compliment  of  a  compliment,"  she  said.  "  Was 
it  the  sailor  who  spoke  then  or  the — or  yourself  ?  It  is 
not  like  you,  I  fancy." 

"  I  did  not  mean  it  as  a  compliment,"  he  replied.  "  I 
was  thinking  about  critical  and  important  things." 

"  <  Critical  and  important '  sounds  large,"  she  returned. 

"And  the  awakening  was  sudden,"  he  continued. 
"  You  must  make  allowance,  please,  for " 

"  For  the  brusque  appearance  of  a  very  unimaginative, 
substantial  and  undreamlike  person  ?  I  do.  And  now, 
since  you  will  not  put  me  quite  at  my  ease  by  assuming, 


226  MRS.    FALCHION. 

in  words,  that  I  have  been  properly  '  chaperoned '  here, 
I  must  inform  you  that  my  father  waits  hard  by — is,  as 
my  riotous  young  brother  says,  '  without  on  the  mat.'  ' 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  he  replied  with  more  politeness 
than  exactness. 

"  That  I  was  duly  escorted,  or  that  my  father  is  '  with- 
out on  the  mat?'  .  .  .  However,  you  do  not  appear 
glad  one  way  or  the  other.  And  now  I  must  explain  our 
business.  It  is  to  ask  your  company  at  dinner  (do  con- 
sider yourself  honored — actually  a  formal  dinner  party 
in  the  Rockies  !)  to  meet  the  lieutenant  governor,  who 
is  coming  to  see  our  famous  Viking  and  Sunburst.  .  .  . 
But  you  are  expected  to  go  out  where  '  my  father  feeds 
his  ' — there,  see, — his  horse  on  your  '  trim  parterre.'  And 
now  that  I  have  done  my  duty  as  page  and  messenger 
without  a  word  of  assistance,  Mr.  Roscoe,  will  you  go 
and  encourage  my  father  to  hope  that  you  will  be  vis-a-vis 
to  his  excellency  ?  "  She  lightly  beat  the  air  with  her 
whip,  while  I  took  a  good  look  at  the  charming  scene. 

Roscoe  looked  seriously  at  the  girl  for  an  instant.  He 
understood  too  well  the  source  of  such  gay  social  banter. 
He  knew  it  covered  a  hurt.  He  said  to  her  :  "  Is  this 
Ruth  Devlin  or  another  ?  " 

And  she  replied  very  gravely  :  "  It  is  Ruth  Devlin  and 
another  too,"  and  she  looked  down  to  the  chasm  beneath 
with  an  enigmatical  smile  ;  but  her  eyes  were  troubled. 

He  left  her  and  went  and  spoke  to  her  father  whom  I 
had  joined,  but,  after  a  moment,  returned  to  Ruth. 

Ruth  turned  slightly  to  meet  him  as  he  came.  "  And 
is  the  prestige  of  the  house  of  Devlin  to  be  supported  ? " 
she  said  ;  "  and  the  governor  to  be  entertained  with  tales 
of  flood  and  field  ?" 

His  face  had  now  settled  into  a  peculiar  calmness. 
He  said  with  a  touch  of  mock  irony  :  "  The  sailor  shall 
play  his  part — the  obedient  retainer  of  the  house  of 
Devlin." 


MRS.    FALCHION.  227 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  you  are  malicious  now  !  You  turn 
your  long  accomplished  satire  on  a  woman."  And  she 
nodded  to  the  hills  opposite,  as  if  to  tell  them  that  it  was 
as  they  had  said  to  her  :  those  grand  old  hills  with  which 
she  had  lived  since  childhood,  to  whom  she  had  told  all 
that  had  ever  happened  to  her. 

"  No,  indeed  no,"  he  replied,  "  though  I  am  properly 
rebuked.  I  fear  I  am  malicious, — just  a  little, — but  it  is 
all  inner-self-malice  :  '  Rome  turned  upon  itself." 

"  But  one  cannot  always  tell  when  irony  is  intended 
for  the  speaker  of  it.  Yours  did  not  seem  applied  to  your- 
self," was  her  slow  answer,  and  she  seemed  more  inter- 
ested in  Mount  Trinity  than  in  him. 

"  No  ? "  Then  he  said  with  a  playful  sadness,  "  A 
moment  ago  you  were  not  completely  innocent  of  irony, 
were  you  ?" 

"  But  a  man  is  big  and  broad,  and  should  not — he 
should  be  magnanimous,  leaving  it  to  woman,  whose  life 
is  spent  among  little  things,  to  be  guilty  of  littlenesses. 
But  see  how  daring  I  am — speaking  like  this  to  you  who 
know  so  much  more  than  I  do.  .  .  .  Surely,  you  are 
still  only  humorous,  when  you  speak  of  irony  turned 
upon  yourself — the  irony  so  icy  to  your  friends  ? " 

She  had  developed  greatly.  Her  mind  had  been  sharp- 
ened by  pain.  The  edge  of  her  wit  had  become  poign- 
ant, her  speech  rendered  logical  and  allusive.  Roscoe 
was  wise  enough  to  understand  that  the  change  in  her 
had  been  achieved  by  the  change  in  himself  ;  that,  since 
Mrs.  Falchion  came,  Ruth  had  awakened  sharply  to  a 
distress  not  exactly  definable.  She  felt  that,  though  he 
had  never  spoken  of  love  to  her,  she  had  a  right  to  share 
his  troubles.  The  infrequency  of  his  visits  to  her  of 
late,  and  something  in  his  manner,  made  her  uneasy  and 
a  little  bitter.  For  there  was  an  understanding  between 
them,  though  it  had  been  unspoken  and  unwritten.  They 
had  vowed  without  priest  or  witness.     The  heart  speaks 


228  MRS.    FALCHION. 

eloquently  in  symbols  first,  and  afterwards  in  stumbling 
words. 

It  seemed  to  Roscoe  at  this  moment,  as  it  had  seemed 
for  some  time,  that  the  words  would  never  be  spoken. 
And  was  this  all  that  had  troubled  her — the  belief  that 
Mrs.  Falchion  had  some  claim  upon  his  life  ?  Or  had 
she  knowledge,  got  in  some  strange  way,  of  that  wretched 
shadow  in  his  past  ? 

This  possibility  filled  him  with  bitterness.  The  old 
Adam  in  him  awoke,  and  he  said  within  himself — "  God 
in  Heaven,  must  one  folly,  one  sin,  kill  me  and  her  too  ! 
Why  me  more  than  another  ?  .  .  .  .  And  I  love  her,  I 
love  her !  " 

His  eyes  flamed  until  their  blue  looked  all  black,  and 
his  brows  grew  straight  over  them  sharply,  making  his 
face  almost  stern.  .  .  .  There  came  swift  visions  of 
renouncing  his  present  life  ;  of  going  with  her— any- 
where :  to  tell  her  all,  beg  her  forgiveness,  and  begin 
life  over  again,  admitting  that  this  attempt  at  expia- 
tion was  a  mistake  ;  to  have  his  conscience  clear  of 
secret,  and  trust  her  kindness.  For  now  he  was  sure 
that  Mrs.  Falchion  meant  to  make  his  position  as  a 
clergyman  impossible  ;  to  revenge  herself  on  him  for  no 
wrong  that,  so  far  as  he  knew,  he  ever  did  directly  to 
her. 

But  to  tell  this  girl,  or  even  her  father  or  mother,  that 
he  had  been  married,  after  a  shameful  unsanctified  fashion, 
to  a  savage,  with  what  came  after,  and  the  awful  thing 
that  happened — he  who  ministered  at  the  altar!  Now 
that  he  looked  the  thing  in  the  face  it  shocked  him.  No, 
he  could  not  do  it. 

She  said  to  him  while  he  looked  at  her  as  though  he 
would  read  her  through  and  through,  though  his  mind 
was  occupied  with  a  dreadful  possibility  beyond  her, — 
"  Why  do  you  look  so  ?  You  are  stern.  You  are  criti- 
cal.    Have  I — disimproved  so  ?  " 


MRS.    FALCHION.  229 

The  words  were  full  of  a  sudden  and  natural  womanly 
fear,  that  something  in  herself  had  fallen  in  value.  They 
had  a  pathos  so  much  the  more  moving  because  she 
sought  to  hide  it. 

There  swam  before  his  eyes  the  picture  of  happiness 
from  which  she  herself  had  roused  him  when  she  came. 
He  involuntarily,  passionately,  caught  her  hand  and 
pressed  it  to  his  lips  twice  ;  but  spoke  nothing. 

"  Oh  !  Oh!  "she  said; — "please!"  Her  voice  was  low 
and  broken,  and  she  spoke  appealingly.  Could  he  not 
see  that  he  was  breaking  her  heart,  while  filling  it  also 
with  unbearable  joy  ?  Why  did  he  not  speak  and  make 
this  possible,  and  not  leave  it  a  thing  to  flush  her  cheeks, 
and  cause  her  to  feel  he  had  acted  on  a  knowledge  he 
had  no  right  to  possess  till  he  had  declared  himself  in 
speech  ?  Could  he  not  have  spared  her  that  ?— This 
Christian  gentleman  whose  worth  had  compassed  these 
mountains  and  won  the  dwellers  among  them  ? — it  was 
bitter.  Her  pride  and  injured  heart  rose  up  and  choked 
her. 

He  let  go  her  hand.  Now  his  face  was  partly  turned 
from  her,  and  she  saw  how  thin  and  pale  it  was.  She 
saw,  too,  what  I  had  seen  during  the  past  week,  that 
his  hair  had  become  almost  white  about  the  temples  ; 
and  the  moveless  sadness  of  his  position  struck  her  with 
unnatural  force,  so  that,  in  spite  of  herself,  tears  came 
suddenly  to  her  eyes,  and  a  slight  moan  broke  from  her. 
She  would  have  run  away  :  but  it  was  too  late. 

He  saw  the  tears,  the  look  of  pity,  indignation,  pride, 
and  love  in  her  face. 

"  My  love  !  "  he  cried  passionately,  and  he  opened  his 
arms  to  her. 

But  she  stood  still.  He  came  very  close  to  her,  spoke 
quickly,  and  almost  despairingly  :  "  Ruth,  I  love  you, 
and  I  have  wronged  you  :  but  here  is  your  place,  if  you 
will  come." 


230 


MRS.    FALCHION, 


At  first  she  seemed  stunned,  and  her  face  was  turned 
to  her  mountains,  as  though  the  echo  of  his  words  were 
coming  back  to  her  from  them,  but  the  thing  crept  into 
her  heart  and  flooded  it.  She  seemed  to  wake,  and 
then  all  her  affection  carried  her  into  his  arms,  and  she 
dried  her  eyes  upon  his  breast. 

After  a  time  he  whispered  :  "  My  dear,  I  have  wronged 
you.     I  should  not  have  made  you  care  for  me." 

She  did  not  seem  to  notice  that  he  spoke  of  wrong. 
She  said  :  "  I  was  yours,  Gait,  even  from  the  beginning, 
1  think,  though  I  did  not  quite  know  it.  I  remember 
what  you  read  in  church  the  first  Sunday  you  came,  and 
it  has  always  helped  me  ;  for  I  wanted  to  be  good." 

She  paused  and  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  then  with 
sweet  solemnity  she  said  :  "  The  words  were  : 

<  The  Lord  God  is  my  strength,  and  he  will  make  my  feet 
like  hinds  feet,  and  he  will  make  me  to  walk  upon  mine 
high  places' " 

"  Ruth,"  he  answered,  "you  have  always  walked  on 
the  high  places.  You  have  never  failed.  And  you 
are  as  safe  as  the  nest  of  the  eagle,  a  noble  work  of 
God." 

"  No,  I'm  not  noble  ;  but  I  should  like  to  be  so.  Most 
women  like  goodness.  It  is  instinct  with  us,  I  suppose. 
We  had  rather  be  good  than  evil,  and  when  we  love  we 
can  do  good  things  ;  but  we  quiver  like  the  compass- 
needle  between  two  poles.  Oh,  believe  me  !  we  are 
weak  ;  but  we  are  loving." 

"  Your  worst,  Ruth,  is  as  much  higher  than  my  best  as 
the  heaven  is " 

"  O  Gait,  you  hurt  my  fingers  !  "  she  interrupted. 
He  had  not  noticed  the  almost  fierce  strength  of  his 
clasp.     But  his  life  was  desperately  hungry  for  her. 

"  Forgive  me,  dear.— As  I  said,  better  than  my  best ; 
for,  Ruth,  my  life  was— wicked,  long  ago.  You  cannot 
understand  how  wicked  !  " 


MRS.    FALCHION.  231 

"  You  are  a  clergyman  and  a  good  man,"  she  said  with 
pathetic  negation. 

"  You  give  me  a  heart  unsoiled,  unspotted  of  the 
world.  I  have  been  in  some  ways  worse  than  the  worst 
men  in  the  valley  there  below." 

"  Gait,  Gait,"  she  said,  "  you  shock  me  !  " 

"  Why  did  I  speak  ?  Why  did  I  kiss  your  hand  as  I 
did  ?  Because  at  the  moment  it  was  the  only  honest 
thing  to  do ;  because  it  was  due  you  that  I  should 
say, — '  Ruth,  I  love  you,  love  you  so  much  '  " — here  she 
nestled  close  to  him — "  '  so  well,  that  everything  else  in 
life  is  as  nothing  beside  it, — nothing  !  so  well  that  I  could 
not  let  you  share  my  wretchedness.'  " 

She  ran  her  hand  along  his  breast  and  looked  up  at 
him  with  swimming  eyes. 

"  And  you  think,  Gait,  that  this  is  fair  to  me  ?  that 
a  woman  gives  the  heart  for  pleasant  weather  only? 
I  do  not  know  what  your  sorrow  may  be,  but  it  is  my 
right  to  share  it.  I  am  only  a  woman  ;  but  a  woman 
can  be  strong  for  those  she  loves.  Remember  that  I 
have  always  had  to  care  for  others — always  ;  and  I  can 
bear  much.  I  will  not  ask  what  your  trouble  is,  I  only 
ask  you " — here  she  spoke  slowly  and  earnestly,  and 
rested  her  hand  on  his  shoulder — "  to  say  to  me  that 
you  love  no  other  woman  ;  and  that — that  no  other 
woman  has  a  claim  upon  you.  Then  I  shall  be  content 
to  pity  you,  to  help  you,  to  love  you.  God  gives  women 
many  pains,  but  none  so  great  as  the  love  that  will  not 
trust  utterly  ;  for  trust  is  our  bread  of  life.  Yes,  indeed, 
indeed  !  " 

"  I  dare  not  say,"  he  said,  "  that  it  is  your  misfortune 
to  love  me,  for  in  this  you  show  how  noble  a  woman  can 
be.  But  I  will  say  that  the  cup  is  bitter-sweet  for  you. 
.  .  .  I  cannot  tell  you  now  what  my  trouble  is  ;  but  I 
can  say  that  no  other  living  woman  has  a  claim  upon  me. 
.     .     .     My  reckoning  is  with  the  dead" 


232  MRS.    FALCHION. 

"  That  is  with  God,"  she  whispered,  "  and  He  is  just 
and  merciful  too.  .  .  .  Can  it  not  be  repaired 
here  ?  "  She  smoothed  back  his  hair,  then  let  her  fin- 
gers stray  lightly  on  his  cheek. 

It  hurt  him  like  death  to  reply  :  "  No,  but  there  can 
be — punishment  here." 

She  shuddered  slightly.  "  Punishment,  punishment  !  " 
she  repeated  fearfully, — "  what  punishment  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  quite  know."  Lines  of  pain  grew  deeper 
in  his  face.  ..."  Ruth,  how  much  can  a  woman 
forgive  ?  " 

"A  mother,  everything."    But  she  would  say  no  more. 

He  looked  at  her  long  and  earnestly,  and  said  at  last : 

"  Will  you  believe  in  me  no  matter  what  happens  ? " 

"  Always,  always."     Her  smile  was  most  winning. 

'*  If  things  should  appear  dark  against  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  give  me  your  word." 

"  If  I  said  to  you  that  I  did  a  wrong  ;  that  I  broke  the 
law  of  God,  though  not  the  laws  of  man  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  she  drew  back  trembling 
slightly,  and  looked  at  him  timidly  and  then  steadily,  but 
immediately  put  her  hands  bravely  in  his  and  said  :  "  Yes." 

"  I  did  not  break  the  laws  of  man." 

"  It  was  when  you  were  in  the  navy  ? "  she  inquired, 
in  an  awe-stricken  tone. 

"Yes,  years  ago." 

"  I  know.  I  feel  it.  You  must  not  tell  me.  It  was 
a  woman,  and  this  other  woman,  this  Mrs.  Falchion 
knows,  and  she  would  try  to  ruin  you,  or — "  here  she 
seemed  to  be  moved  suddenly  by  a  new  thought, — "  or 
have  you  love  her.  But  she  shall  not,  she  shall  not — 
neither  !  For  I  will  love  you,  and  God  will  listen  to  me, 
and  answer  me." 

"  Would  to  God  I  were  worthy  of  you  !     I  dare  not 

think  of  where  you  might  be  called  to  follow  me,  Ruth." 

"  Whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go;  and  where  thou  lodg- 


MRS.    FALCHION.  21,$ 

est,  I  will  lodge  ;  thy  people  shall  be  my  people,  and  thy  God 
my  God"  she  rejoined  in  a  low  voice. 

" '  Thy  God  my  God  !  '  "  he  repeated  after  her  slowly. 

He  suddenly  wondered  if  his  God  was  her  God  ; 
whether  now  in  his  trouble,  he  had  that  comfort  which 
his  creed  and  profession  should  give  him.  For  the  first 
time  he  felt  acutely  that  his  choice  of  this  new  life 
might  have  been  more  a  re-action  from  the  past,  a  desire 
for  expiation,  than  radical  belief  that  this  was  the 
right  and  only  thing  for  him  to  do.  And  when,  some 
time  after,  he  bade  Ruth  good-by,  as  she  went  with 
her  father,  it  came  to  him  with  appalling  conviction 
that  his  life  had  been  a  mistake.  The  twist  of  a  great 
wrong  in  a  man's  character  distorts  his  vision  :  and  if  he 
has  a  tender  conscience,  he  magnifies  his  misdeeds. 

In  silence  Roscoe  and  I  watched  the  two  ride  down 
the  slope.  I  guessed  what  had  happened  :  afterwards 
1  was  told  all.  I  was  glad  of  it,  though  the  end  was 
not  yet  promising.  When  we  turned  to  go  towards  the 
house  again,  a  man  lounged  out  of  the  trees  towards  us. 
He  looked  at  me,  then  at  Roscoe,  and  said: 

"  I'm  Phil  Boldrick's  pal  from  Danger  Mountain." 

Roscoe  held  out  his  hand,  and  the  man  took  it,  say- 
ing :  "  You're  The  Padre,  I  suppose,  and  Phil  was  soft 
on  you.  Didn't  turn  religious,  did  he  ?  He  always  had 
a  streak  of  God  A'mighty  in  him  ;  a  kind  of  give-away- 
the-top-of-your-head  chap  ;  friend  o'  the  widow  and  the 
orphan,  and  divvy  to  his  last  crust  with  a' pal.  I  got 
your  letter,  and  come  over  here  straight  to  see  that  he's 
been  tombed  accordin'  to  his  virtues  ;  to  lay  out  the 
dollars  he  left  me,  on  the  people  he  had  on  his  visitin' 
list ;  no  loafers,  no  gophers,  not  one  :  but  to  them  that 
stayed  by  him  I  stay,  while  prog  and  liquor  last." 

I  saw  Roscoe  looking  at  him  in  an  abstracted  way, 
and,  as  he  did  not  reply,  I  said  :  "  Phil  had  many 
friends  and  no  enemies."     Then   I  told  him  the  tale  of 


234  MRS-    FALCHION. 

his  death  and  funeral,  and  how  the  valley  mourned  for 
him. 

While  I  spoke  he  stood  leaning  against  a  tree,  shaking 
his  head  and  listening,  his  eyes  occasionally  resting  on 
Roscoe  with  a  look  as  abstracted  and  puzzled  as  that 
on  Roscoe's  face.  When  I  had  finished  he  drew  his 
hand  slowly  down  his  beard,  and  a  thick  sound  came 
from  behind  his  fingers.     But  he  did  not  speak. 

Then  I  suggested  quietly  that  Phil's  dollars  could  be 
put  to  a  better  use  than  for  prog  and  liquor. 

He  did  not  reply  to  this  at  all  ;  but  after  a  moment's 
pause,  in  which  he  seemed  to  be  studying  the  gambols  of 
a  squirrel  in  a  pine  tree,  he  rubbed  his  chin  nervously, 
and  more  in  soliloquy  than  conversation  said  :  "  I  never 
had  but  two  pals  that  was  pals  through  and  through. 
And  one  was  Phil  and  the  other  was  Jo — Jo  Bracken- 
bury." 

Here  Roscoe's  hand,  which  had  been  picking  at  the 
bark  of  a  poplar,  twitched  suddenly. 

The  man  continued  :  "  Poor  Jo  went  down  in  the  Fly 
Away  when  she  swung  with  her  bare  ribs  flat  before  the 
wind,  and  swamped  and  tore  upon  the  bloody  reefs  at 
Apia.  .  .  .  God,  how  they  gnawed  her  !  And  never 
a  rag  holdin'  nor  a  stick  standin',  and  her  pretty  figger 
broke  like  a  tin  whistle  in  a  Corliss  engine. — And  Jo 
Brackenbury,  the  dandiest  rip,  the  noisiest  pal  that  ever 
said  '  Here's  how  !  '  went  out  to  heaven  on  a  tearing  sea." 

"  Jo  Brackenbury — "  Roscoe  repeated  musingly.  His 
head  was  turned  away  from  us. 

"  Yes,  Jo  Brackenbury  :  and  Captain  Falchion  said  to 
me  "  (I  wonder  that  I  did  not  start  then)  "  when  I  told 
him  how  the  Fly  Away  went  down  to  Davy,  and  her 
lovers  went  aloft,  reefed  close  afore  the  wind, — 
'  Then,'  says  he,  '  They've  got  a  damned  sound  seaman 
on  the  Jordan,  and  so  help  me  !  him  that's  good  enough 
to  row  my  girl  from  open  sea,  gales  poundin'  and  break- 


MRS.    FALCHION.  235 

ers  showin'  teeth  across  the  bar  to  Maita  Point,  is  good 
enough  for  use  where  seas  is  still  and  reefs  ain't  fashion- 
able." 

Roscoe's  face  looked  haggard  as  it  now  turned  towards 
us.  "  If  you  will  meet  me,"  he  said  to  the  stranger,  "  to- 
morrow morning,  in  Mr.  Devlin's  office  at  Viking,  I  will 
hand  you  over  Phil  Boldrick's  legacy." 

The  man  made  as  if  he  would  shake  hands  with  Ros- 
coe,  who  appeared  not  to  notice  the  motion,  and  then 
said  :  "  I'll  be  there.  You  can  bank  on  that  ;  and  as  we 
used  to  say  down  in  the  Spicy  Isles  where  neither  of  you 
have  been,  I  s'pose,   Talofal" 

He  swung  away  down  the  hill-side. 

Roscoe  turned  to  me.  "  You  see,  Marmion,  all  things 
circle  to  a  centre.  The  trail  seems  long,  but  the  fox 
gets  killed  an  arm's  length  from  his  hole." 

"  Not  always.  You  take  it  too  seriously,"  I  said. 
"  You  are  no  fox. " 

"  That  man  will  be  in  at  the  death,"  he  persisted. 

"  Nonsense,  Roscoe.  He  does  not  know  you.  What 
has  he  to  do  with  you  ?  This  is  over-wrought  nerves. 
You  are  killing  yourself  with  worry." 

He  was  motionless  and  silent  for  a  minute.  Then  he 
said  very  quietly  :  "  No,  I  do  not  think  that  I  really 
worry  now.  I  have  known — "  here  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  my  shoulder  and  his  eyes  had  a  shining  look — 
"  what  it  is  to  be  happy,  unspeakably  happy,  for  a 
moment  ;  and  that  stays  with  me.  I  am  a  coward  no 
longer." 

He  drew  his  finger  tips  slowly  across  his  forehead. 
Then  he  contined  :  "  To-morrow  I  shall  be  angry  with 
myself,  no  doubt,  for  having  that  moment's  joy,  but  I 
can't  feel  so  now.  I  shall  probably  condemn  myself  for 
cruel  selfishness  ;  but  I  have  touched  life's  highest  point 
this  afternoon,  Marmion." 

I  drew  his  hand  down  from  my  shoulder  and  pressed 


236  MRS.    FALCHION. 

it.  It  was  cold.  He  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the 
mountain,  and  said  :  "  I  have  had  dreams,  Marmion, 
and  they  are  over.  I  lived  in  one  :  to  expiate — to  wipe 
out — a  past,  by  spending  my  life  for  others.  The  expia- 
tion is  not  enough.  I  lived  in  another  :  to  win  a  woman's 
love  ;  and  I  have,  and  was  caught  up  by  it  for  a  moment, 
and  it  was  wonderful.  But  it  is  over  now,  quite  over. 
.  And  now  for  her  sake  renunciation  must  be 
made,  before  I  have  another  dream — a  long  one, 
Marmion." 

I  had  forebodings,  but  I  pulled  myself  together  and 
said  firmly  :  "Roscoe,  these  are  fancies.  Stop  it,  man. 
You  are  moody.  Come,  let  us  walk,  and  talk  of  other 
things." 

"  No,  we  will  not  walk,"  he  said,  "  but  let  us  sit  there 
on  the  coping,  and  be  quiet — quiet  in  that  roar  between 
the  hills."  Suddenly  he  swung  round,  caught  me  by  the 
shoulders  and  held  me  gently  so. 

"  I  have  a  pain  at  my  heart,  Marmion,  as  if  I'd  heard 
my  death  sentence  ;  such  as  a  soldier  feels  who  knows 
that  Death  looks  out  at  him  from  iron  eyes.  You  smile  : 
I  suppose  you  think  I  am  mad." 

I  saw  that  it  was  best  to  let  him  speak  his  mind.  So  I 
answered  :  "  Not  mad,  my  friend.  Say  on  what  you  like. 
Tell  me  all  you  feel.  Only,  for  God's  sake  be  brave, 
and  don't  give  up  until  there's  occasion.  I'm  sure  you 
exaggerate  your  danger,  whatever  it  is." 

"  Listen  for  a  minute,"  said  he  ;  "I  had  a  brother 
Edward,  as  good  a  lad  as  ever  was  ;  a  boisterous 
healthy  fellow.  We  had  an  old  nurse  in  our  family  who 
came  from  Irish  hills,  faithful  and  kind  to  us  both. 
There  came  a  change  over  Edward.  He  appeared  not 
to  take  the  same  interest  in  his  sports.  One  day  he 
came  to  me,  looking  a  bit  pale,  and  said  :  '  Gait,  I  think 
I  should  like  to  study  for  the  Church.'  I  laughed  at  it, 
yet  it  troubled  me  in  a  way,  for  I  saw  he  was  not  well. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  237 

I  told  Martha,  the  nurse.  She  shook  her  head  sadly,  and 
said  :  '  Edward  is  not  for  the  Church,  but  you,  my  lad. 
He  is  for  heaven.'  " 

"  For  heaven,  Martha  ?  "  laughed  I. 

"  '  In  truth  for  heaven,'  she  replied,  '  and  that  soon. 
The  look  of  his  eye  is  doom.  I've  seen  it  since  I  swad- 
dled him,  and  he  will  go  suddenly.' 

"  I  was  angry,  and  I  said  to  her, — though  she  thought 
she  spoke  the  truth, — '  This  is  only  Irish  croaking.  We'll 
have  the  banshee  next.' 

"  She  got  up  from  her  chair  and  answered  me 
solemnly, — '  Gait  Roscoe,  I-  have  heard  the  banshee 
wail,  and  sorrow  falls  upon  your  home.  And  don't  you 
be  so  hard  with  me  that  have  loved  you,  and  who  suffers 
for  the  lad  that  often  and  often  lay  upon  my  breast. 
Don't  be  so  hard  ;  for  your  day  of  trouble  comes  too. 
You,  not  he,  will  be  priest  at  the  altar.  Death  will  come 
to  him  like  a  swift  and  easy  sleep  ;  but  you  will  feel  its 
hand  upon  your  heart  and  know  its  hate  for  many  a  day, 
and  bear  the  slow  pangs  of  it  until  your  life  is  all  crushed, 
and  you  go  from  the  world  alone,  Love  crying  after  you 
and  not  able  to  save  you,  not  even  the  love  of  woman — 
weaker  than  death.  .  .  .  And,  in  my  grave,  when 
that  day  comes  beside  a  big  mountain  in  a  strange  land, 
I'll  weep  and  pray  for  you  ;  for  I  was  mother  to  you  too, 
when  yours  left  you  alone  bewhiles,  never,  in  this  world, 
to  come  back.' 

"  And,  Marmion,  that  night  towards  morning,  as  I  lay 
in  the  same  room  with  Edward  I  heard  his  breath  stop 
sharply.  I  jumped  up  and  drew  aside  the  curtains  to 
let  in  the  light,  and  then  I  knew  that  the  old  woman 
spoke  true.  .  .  .  And  now  !  .  .  .  Well,  I  am 
like  Hamlet, — and  I  can  say  with  him,  '  But  thou  wouldst 
not  think  how  ill  all's  here  about  my  heart — but  it  is  no 
matter  !  ' "     .     .     . 

I  tried  to  laugh  and  talk  away  his  brooding,  but  there 


238  MRS.    FALCHION. 

was  little  use,  his  convictions  were  so  strong.  Besides, 
what  can  you  do  with  a  morbidness  which  has  its  origin 
in  painful  circumstances  ? 

I  devoutly  wished  that  a  telegram  would  come  from 
Winnipeg  to  let  me  know  if  Boyd  Madras,  under  his  new 
name,  could  be  found.     I  was  a  hunter  on  a  faint  trail. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 


THE    STRINGS    OF    DESTINY. 


When  Phil's  pal  left  us  he  went  wandering  down  the 
hillside,  talking  to  himself.  Long  afterwards  he  told  me 
how  he  felt,  and  I  reproduce  his  phrases  as  nearly  as  I 
can. 

"  Knocked  'em  I  guess,"  he  said,  "  with  that  about  Jo 
Brackenbury.  .  .  .  Poor  Jo  !  Stuck  together,  him 
and  me  did,  after  she  got  the  steel  in  her  heart."  .  .  . 
He  pulled  himself  together,  shuddering.  .  .  .  "  Went 
back  on  me,  she  did,  and  took  up  with  a  cursed  swell, 
and  got  it  cold — cold.  And  I  ?  By  Judas  !  I  never  was 
shut  of  that.  I've  known  women,  many  of  'em,  all  coun- 
tries, but  she  was  different!  I  expect  now,  after  all  these 
years,  that  if  I  got  my  hand  on  the  devil  that  done  for 
her,  I'd  rattle  his  breath  in  his  throat.  There's  things 
that  clings.  She  clings,  Jo  Brackenbury  clings,  and  Phil 
Boldrick  clings  ;  and  they're  gone,  and  I'm  left  to  go  it 
alone.     To  play  the  single  hand — what  ! — by  Jiminy  !  " 

He  exclaimed  thus  on  seeing  two  women  approach 
from  the  direction  of  the  valley.  He  stood  still,  mouth 
open,  staring.  They  drew  near,  almost  passed  him. 
But  one  of  them,  struck  by  his  intense  gaze,  suddenly 
turned  and  came  towards  him. 

"  Miss  Falchion  !     Miss  Falchion  !  "  he  cried.     Then, 


MRS.    FALCHION.  239 

when  she  hesitated  as  if  with  an  effort  of  memory,  he 
added, — "  Don't  you  know  me  ? " 

"  Ah  ! "  she  replied,  abruptly,  "  Sam  Kilby  !  Are  you 
Sam  Kilby,  Jo  Brackenbury's  friend,  from  Samoa  ? " 

"Yes,  Miss,  I'm  Jo  Brackenbury's  friend;  and  I've 
rowed  you  across  the  reefs  with  him  more  than  once — I 
guess  so  !  But  it's  a  long  way  from  Apia  to  the  Rockies, 
and  it's  funny  to  meet  here." 

"  When  did  you  come  here  ?  and  from  where  ?  " 

"  I  come  to-day  from  the  Hudson's  Bay  post  at  Danger 
Mountain.     I'm  Phil  Boldrick's  pal." 

"  Ah,"  she  said  again,  with  a  look  in  her  eyes  not 
pleasant  to  see, — "  and  what  brings  you  up  here  in  the 
hills?"     Hers  was  more  than  an  ordinary  curiosity. 

"  I  come  to  see  The  Padre  who  was  with  Phil  when — 
he  left.  And  The  Padre's  a  fair  square  sort  as  I  reckon 
him,  but  melancholy,  almighty  melancholy." 

"  Yes,  melancholy,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  "  and  fair 
square,  as  you  say.     And  what  did  you  say  and  do  ? " 

lt  Why,  we  yarned  about  Phil,  and  where  I'd  get  the 
legacy  to-morrow  ;  and  I  s'pose  I  had  a  strong  breeze 
on  the  quarter,  for  I  talked  as  free  as  if  we'd  grubbed 
out  of  the  same  dough-pan  since  we  was  kiddies." 

"Yes?" 

"Yes  siree  ;  I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  I  got  to 
reelin'  off  about  Jo — queer,  wasn't  it  ?  And  I  told  'em 
how  he  went  down  in  the  Fly  Away,  and  how  the  lovely 
ladies — you  remember  how  we  used  to  call  the  white- 
caps  lovely  ladies — fondled  him  out  to  sea  and  on  to 
heaven." 

"And  what  did— The  Padre— think  of  that  ?  " 

"  Well,  he's  got  a  heart,  I  should  say, — and  that's  why 
Phil  cottoned  to  him,  maybe, — for  he  looked  as  if  he'd 
seen  ghosts.  I  guess  he'd  never  had  a  craft  runnin' 
'tween  a  sand-bar  and  a  ragged  coral  bank,  nor  seen  a 
girl  like  the  Fly  Away  take  a  buster  in  her  teeth  ;  nor  a 
16 


24O  MRS.    FALCHION. 

man-of-war  come  bundlin'  down  upon  a  nasty  glacis,  the 
captain  on  the  bridge,  engines  goin'  for  all  they're  worth, 
every  man  below  battened  in,  and  every  Jack  above 
watchin'  the  fight  between  the  engines  and  the  hurricane. 
.  .  .  Here  she  rolls  six  fathoms  from  the  glacis  that'll 
rip  her  copper  garments  off,  and  the  quiverin'  engines 
pull  her  back  ;  and  she  swings  and  struggles  and  trem- 
bles between  hell  in  the  hurricane  and  God  A'mighty 
in  the  engines ;  till  at  last  she  gets  her  nose  at  the  neck 
of  the  open  sea,  and  crawls  out  safe  and  sound.  .  .  . 
I  guess  he'd  have  more  marble  in  his  cheeks,  if  he  saw 
likes  o'  that,  Miss  Falchion  ? " 

Kilby  paused  and  wiped  his  forehead. 

She  had  listened  calmly.  She  did  not  answer  his  ques- 
tion. She  said  :  "  Kilby,  I  am  staying  at  the  summer 
hotel  up  there.  Will  you  call  on  me — let  me  see  .  .  . 
say,  to-morrow  afternoon? — Some  one  will  tell  you  the 
way,  if  you  don't  know  it.  .  .  .  Ask  for  Mrs.  Falchion, 
Kilby,  not  Miss  Falchion.      .     .     .     You    will  come  ?  " 

"Why,  yes,"  he  replied,  "you  can  count  on  me; 
for  I'd  like  to  hear  of  things  that  happened  after  I  left 
Apia — and  how  it  is  that  you  are  Mrs.  Falchion, — for 
that's  mighty  queer." 

"  You  shall  hear  all  that  and  more."  She  held  out  her 
hand  to  him  and  smiled.  He  took  it,  and  she  knew  that 
now  she  was  gathering  up  the  strings  of  destiny. 

They  parted. 

The  two  passed  on  looking,  in  their  cool  elegance,  as 
if  life  were  the  most  pleasant  thing  ;  as  though  the  very 
perfume  of  their  garments  would  preserve  them  from 
that  plague  called  trouble. 

"  Justine,"  said  Mrs.  Falchion,  "  there  is  one  law  greater 
than  all ;  the  law  of  coincidence.  Perhaps  the  conven- 
ience of  modern  travel  assists  it,  but  fate  is  in  it  also. 
Events  run  in  circles.  People  connected  with  them  travel 
that  wav  also.     We  pass  and  re-pass  each  other  many 


MRS.    FALCHION.  241 

times,  but  on  different  paths,  until  we  come  close  and  see 
each  other  face  to  face." 

She  was  speaking  almost  the  very  words  which  Ros- 
coe  had  spoken  to  me.  But  perhaps  there  was  nothing 
strange  in  that. 

"Yes,  madame,"  replied  Justine;  "it  is  so,  but  there 
is  a  law  greater  than  coincidence." 

"  What,  Justine  ?  " 

"  The  law  of  love,  which  is  just  and  merciful  and  would 
give  peace  instead  of  trouble." 

Mrs.  Falchion  looked  closely  at  Justine,  and,  after  a 
moment,  evidently  satisfied,  said  :  "  What  do  you  know 
of  love  ? " 

Justine  tried  hard  for  composure,  and  answered  gently  : 
"  I  loved  my  brother  Hector." 

"  And  did  it  make  you  just  and  merciful  and — an 
angel  ?" 

"  Madame,  you  could  answer  that  better.  But  it  has 
not  made  me  be  at  war  ;  it  has  made  me  patient." 

"  Your  love — for  your  brother — has  made  you  that  ?  " 
Again  she  looked  keenly,  but  Justine  now  showed  nothing 
but  earnestness. 

"  Yes,  madame." 

Mrs.  Falchion  paused  for  a  moment  and  seemed  intent 
on  the  beauty  of  the  pine-belted  hills,  capped  by  snowy 
peaks,  and  wrapped  in  the  most  hearty  yet  delicate  color. 
The  red  of  her  parasol  threw  a  warm  softness  upon  her 
face.     She  spoke  now  without  looking  at  Justine. 

"  Justine,  did  you  ever  love  anyone  besides  your 
brother  ? — I  mean  another  man  ?  " 

Justine  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  said  : 
"  Yes,  once."  She  was  looking  at  the  hills  now,  and  Mrs. 
Falchion  at  her. 

"  And  you  were  happy  ?  "  Here  Mrs.  Falchion  ab- 
stractedly toyed  with  a  piece  of  lace  on  Justine's  arm 
Such  acts  were  unusual  with  her. 


242  MRS.    FALCHION. 

"  I  was  happy — in  loving." 

"  Why  did  you  not  marry  ? " 

"  Madame, — it  was  impossible — quite  !  "  This,  with 
hesitation  and  the  slightest  accent  of  pain. 

"  Why,  impossible  ?  You  have  good  looks,  you  were 
born  a  lady  ;  you  have  a  foolish  heart — the  fond  are 
foolish."  She  watched  the  girl  keenly,  the  hand  ceased 
to  toy  with  the  lace,  and  caught  the  arm  itself, — "  Why 
impossible  ? " 

"  Madame,  he  did  not  love  me,  he  never  could." 

"  Did  he  know  of  your  love  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "     This,  with  trouble  in  her  voice. 

"  And  you  have  never  forgotten  ?  " 

The  catechism  was  strangely  cruel  ;  but  Mrs.  Falchion 
was  not  merely  merciless.  She  was  inquiring  of  a  thing 
infinitely  important  to  her.  She  was  searching  the  heart 
of  another,  not  only  because  she  was  suspicious,  but 
because  she  wanted  to  know  herself  better. 

"  It  is  easy  to  remember." 

"  Is  it  long  since  you  saw  him  ?  " 

The  question  almost  carried  terror  with  it,  for  she  was 
not  quite  sure  why  Mrs.  Falchion  questioned  her. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  slowly,  and  there  was  in  them 
anxiety  and  joy.     "  It  seems,"  she  said,  "  like  years." 

"  He  loves  some  one  else  perhaps." 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,  madame." 

"  Did  you  hate  her  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  am  glad  for  him." 

Here  Mrs.  Falchion  spoke  sharply,  almost  maliciously. 
Even  through  her  soft  color  a  hardness  appeared. 

"  You  are  glad  for  him  ?  You  would  see  another  woman 
in  his  arms  and  not  be  full  of  anger  ?  " 

"  Quite." 

"  Justine,  you  are  a  fool." 

"  Madame,  there  is  no  commandment  against  being  a 
fool. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  243 

"  Oh,  you  make  me  angry  with  your  meekness !  " 
Here  Mrs.  Falchion  caught  a  twig  from  a  tree  by  her, 
snapped  it  in  her  fingers,  and  petulantly  threw  its  pieces 
to  the  ground.  "  Suppose  that  the  man  had  once  loved 
you,  and  afterwards  loved  another, — then  again  another." 

"  Madame,  that  would  be  my  great  misfortune,  but  it 
might  be  no  wrong  in  him." 

'•  How  not  a  wrong  in  him  ?  " 

"  It  may  have  been  my  fault.  There  must  be  love  in 
both — great  love,  for  it  to  last." 

"  And  if  the  woman  loved  him  not  at  all  ? " 

"  Where,  then,  could  be  the  wrong  in  him  ?  " 

"  And  if  he  went  from  you," — here  her  voice  grew  dry 
and  her  words  were  sharp, —  "and  took  a  woman  from 
the  depths  of— oh,  no  matter  what !  and  made  her  com- 
mit— crime — and  was  himself  a  criminal  ?  " 

"  It  is  horrible  to  think  of  ;  but  I  should  ask  myself 
how  much  I  was  to  blame.  .  .  .  What  would  you 
ask  yourself,  madame  ?  " 

"  You  have  a  strain  of  the  angel  in  you,  Justine.  You 
would  forgive  Judas  if  he  said  ' Peccavi.'  I  have  a  strain 
of  Satan,— it  was  born  in  me. — I  would  say,  You  have 
sinned,  now  suffer." 

"  God  give  you  a  softer  heart,"  said  Justine  with 
tender  boldness  and  sincerity. 

At  this  Mrs.  Falchion  started  slightly,  and  trouble 
covered  her  face.  She  assumed,  however,  a  tone  almost 
brusque,  artificially  airy  and  unimportant. 

"  There,  that  will  do,  thank  you.  ...  We  have 
become  serious  and  incomprehensible.  Let  us  talk  of 
other  things.      I  want  to  be  gay.     .     .     .     Amuse  me." 

Arrived  at  the  hotel  she  told  Justine  that  she  must  not 
be  disturbed  till  near  dinner-time,  and  withdrew  to  her 
sitting-room.  There  she  sat  and  thought,  as  she  had 
never  done  in  her  life  before.  She  thought  upon  every- 
thing that  had  happened  since  the  day  when  she  met 


244  MRS-    FALCHION. 

Gait  Roscoe  on  the  Fulvia ;  of  a  certain  evening  in 
England,  before  he  took  orders,  when  he  told  her,  in 
retort  to  some  peculiarly  cutting  remark  of  hers,  that  she 
was  the  evil  genius  of  his  life  :  that  evening  when  her 
heart  grew  hard,  as  she  had  once  said  it  should  always 
be  to  him,  and  she  determined  again,  after  faltering 
many  times,  that  just  such  a  genius  she  would  be  ;  of 
the  strange  meeting  in  the  rapids  at  the  Devil's  Slide, 
and  the  irony  of  it  ;  and  the  fact  that  he  had  saved  her 
life — on  that  she  paused  a  while  ;  of  Ruth  Devlin — and 
here  she  was  swayed  by  conflicting  emotions  ;  of  the 
scene  at  the  mill,  and  Phil  Boldrick's  death  and  funeral  ; 
of  the  service  in  the  church  where  she  meant  to  mock  him, 
and,  instead,  mocked  herself  ;  of  the  meeting  with  Tonga 
Sam  ;  of  all  that  Justine  had  said  to  her  :  then  of  the 
far  past  in  Samoa,  with  which  Gait  Roscoe  was  associated, 
and  of  that  first  vow  of  vengeance  for  a  thing  he  had 
done  ;  and  how  she  had  hesitated  to  fulfil  it  year  after 
year  till  now. 

Passing  herself  slowly  back  and  forth  before  her  eyes, 
she  saw  that  she  had  lived  her  life  almost  wholly  alone  ; 
that  no  woman  had  ever  cherished  her  as  a  friend,  and 
that  on  no  man's  breast  had  she  ever  laid  her  head  in 
trust  and  love.  She  had  been  loved,  but  it  had  never 
brought  her  satisfaction.  From  Justine  there  was  de- 
votion ;  but  it  had,  as  she  thought,  been  purchased,  paid 
for,  like  the  labor  of  a  ploughboy.  And  if  she  saw  now 
in  Justine's  eyes  a  look  of  friendship,  a  note  of  personal 
allegiance,  she  knew  it  was  because  she  herself  had 
grown  more  human. 

Her  nature  had  been  stirred.  Her  natural  heart  was 
struggling  against  her  old  bitterness  towards  Gait  Ros- 
coe and  her  partial  hate  of  Ruth  Devlin.  Once  Roscoe 
had  loved  her,  and  she  had  not  loved  him.  Then,  on  a 
bitter  day  for  him,  he  did  a  mad  thing.  The  thing 
became— though  neither  of   them   knew  it  at  the  time, 


MRS.    FALCHION.  245 

and  he  not  yet — a  great  injury  to  her,  and  this  had 
called  for  the  sharp  retaliation  which  she  had  the  power 
to  use.  But  all  had  not  happened  as  she  expected  ;  for 
something  called  Love  had  been  conceived  in  her  very 
slowly,  and  was  now  being  boin,  and  sent,  trembling  for 
its  timid  life,  into  the  world. 

She  closed  her  eyes  with  weariness,  and  pressed  her 
hands  to  her  temples. 

She  wondered  why  she  could  not  be  all  evil  or  all 
good.  She  had  spoken  and  acted  against  Ruth  Devlin, 
and  yet  she  pitied  her.  She  had  the  nettle  to  sting  Ros- 
coe  to  death,  and  yet  she  halted  to  use  it.  She  had  said 
to  herself  that  she  would  wait  till  the  happiest  moment  of 
his  life,  and  then  do  so.  Well,  his  happiest  moment  had 
come.  Ruth  Devlin's  heart  was  all  out,  all  blossomed — 
beside  Mrs.  Falchion's  like  some  wild  flower  with  the 
aloe.  .  .  .  Only  now  she  had  come  to  know  that 
she  had  a  heart.  Something  had  chilled  her  at  her 
birth,  and  when  her  mother  died,  a  stranger's  kiss  closed 
up  all  the  ways  to  love,  and  left  her  an  icicle.  She  was 
twenty-eight  years  old,  and  yet  she  had  never  kissed  a 
face  in  joy  or  to  give  joy.  And  now  when  she  had  come 
to  know  herself  and  understand  what  others  understand 
when  they  are  little  children  in  their  mothers'  arms,  she 
had  to  bow  to  the  spirit  that  denies.  She  drew  herself 
up  with  a  quiver  of  the  body. 

"  Oh,  God  !  "  she  said,  "  do  I  hate  him  or  love  him  ? " 

Her  head  dropped  in  her  hands.  She  sat  regardless 
of  time,  now  scarcely  stirring,  desperately  quiet.  The 
door  opened  softly  and  Justine  entered.  "  Madame," 
she  said,  "  pardon  me  ;  I  am  so  sorry,  but  Miss  Devlin 
has  come  to  see  you,  and  I  thought " 

"  You  thought,  Justine,  that  I  would  see  her."  There 
was  unmistakable  irony  in  her  voice.  "  Very  well.  .  .  . 
Show  her  in  here." 

She  rose,  stretched  out  her  arms  as  if  to  free  herself 


246  MRS.    FALCHION. 

of  a  burden,  smoothed  her  hair,  composed  herself,  and 
waited,  the  afternoon  sun  just  falling  across  her  burnished 
shoes,  giving  her  feet  of  gold.  She  chanced  to  look 
down  at  them.  A  strange  thought  came  to  her  :  words 
that  she  had  heard  Roscoe  read  in  church.  The  thing 
was  almost  grotesque  in  its  association.  "  How  beauti- 
ful upon  the  mountains  are  the  feet  of  him  who  bringeth 
glad  tidings,  who  publisheth  peace. ' ' 

Ruth  Devlin  entered,  saying,  "  I  have  come,  Mrs. 
Falchion,  to  ask  you  if  you  will  dine  with  us  on  next 
Monday  night  ?  " 

Then  she  explained  the  occasion  of  the  dinner-party, 
and  said  :  "You  see,  though  it  is  formal  I  am  asking  our 
guests  informally;"  and  she  added  as  neutrally  and  as 
lightly  as  she  could, — "  Mr.  Roscoe  and  Dr.  Marmion 
have  been  good  enough  to  say  that  they  will  come.  Of 
course  a  dinner  party  as  it  should  be  is  quite  impossible 
to  us  simple  folk,  but  when  a  lieutenant  governor  com- 
mands, we  must  do  the  best  we  can — with  the  help  of 
our  friends." 

Mrs.  Falchion  was  delighted,  she  said,  and  then  they 
talked  of  trivial  matters,  Ruth  smoothing  out  the  folds  of 
her  riding-dress  with  her  whip  more  earnestly,  in  pre- 
occupation, than  the  act  called  for.  At  last  she  said,  in 
the  course  of  the  formal  talk, — "  You  have  travelled 
much  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  has  been  my  lot,"  was  the  reply  ;  and  she 
leaned  back  in  the  gold-trimmed  cane-chair,  her  feet 
still  in  the  belt  of  yellow  sunlight. 

"  I  have  often  wished  that  I  might  travel  over  the 
ocean,"  said  Ruth,  "  but  here  I  remain, — what  shall  I  say  ? 
— a  rustic  in  a  bandbox,  seeing  the  world  through  a  pin- 
hole.— That  is  the  way  my  father  puts  it.  Except,  of 
course,  that  I  think  it  very  inspiring  to  live  out  here 
among  wonderful  mountains,  which,  as  Mr.  Roscoe  says, 
are  the  most  aristocratic  and  benevolent  of  companions/' 


MRS.    FALCHION,  247 

Some  one  in  the  next  room  was  playing  the  piano  idly 
yet  expressively.  The  notes  of  //  Trovatore  kept  up  a 
continuous  accompaniment  to  their  talk,  varying,  as  if 
by  design,  with  its  meaning  and  importance,  and  yet  in 
singular  contrast  at  times  to  their  thoughts  and  words. 
It  was  almost  malicious  in  its  monotonous  persistence. 

"  Travel  is  not  all,  believe  me,  Miss  Devlin,"  was  the 
indolent  reply.  "  Perhaps  the  simpler  life  is  the  happier. 
The  bandbox  is  not  the  worst  that  may  come  to  one — ■ 
when  one  is  born  to  it.  I  am  not  sure  but  it  is  the  best. 
I  doubt  that  when  one  has  had  the  fever  of  travel  and 
the  world,  the  bandbox  is  permanently  habitable  again." 

Mrs.  Falchion  was  keen  ;  she  had  found  her  oppor- 
tunity. 

On  the  result  of  this  duel,  if  Ruth  Devlin  but  knows 
it,  depends  her  own  and  another's  happiness.  It  is  not 
improbable,  however,  that  something  of  this  is  in  her 
mind.  She  shifts  her  chair  so  that  her  face  may  not  be 
so  much  in  the  light.  But  the  belt  of  sunlight  is  broad- 
ening from  Mrs.  Falchion's  feet  to  her  dress. 

"  You  think  not  ?  "  Ruth  said  slowly. 

The  reply  was  not  important  in  tone.  Mrs.  Falchion 
had  picked  up  a  paper  knife  and  was  bending  it  to  and 
fro  between  her  fingers. 

"  I  think  not.  Particularly  with  a  man,  who  is,  we  will 
say,  by  nature,  adventurous  and  explorative.  I  think,  if, 
in  some  mad  moment,  I  determined  to  write  a  novel,  it 
should  be  of  such  a  man.  He  flies  wide  and  far  ;  he  sees 
all  ;  he  feeds  on  novelty  ;  he  passes  from  experience  to 
experience, — liberal  pleasures  of  mind  and  sense  all  the 
way.  Well,  he  tires  of  Egypt  and  its  flesh-pots.  He  has 
seen  as  he  hurried  on, — I  hope  I  am  not  growing  too 
picturesque  ? — too  much  of  women,  too  many  men.  He 
has  been  unwise, — most  men  are.  Perhaps  he  has  been 
more  than  unwise  ;  he  has  made  a  great  mistake,  a  social 
mistake — or  crime — less  or  more.     If  it  is  a  small  one, 


248  MRS.    FALCHION. 

the  remedy  is  not  so  difficult.  Money,  friends,  adroitness, 
absence,  long  retirement,  are  enough.  If  a  great  one, 
and  he  is  sensitive, — and  sated, — he  flies,  he  seeks 
seclusion.  He  is  afflicted  with  remorse.  He  is  open  to 
the  convincing  pleasures  of  the  simple  and  unadorned 
life  ;  he  is  satisfied — with  simple  people.  The  snuff  of 
the  burnt  candle  of  enjoyment  he  calls  regret,  repentance. 
He  gives  himself  the  delights  of  introspection,  and  wishes 
he  were  a  child  again — yes,  indeed  it  is  so,  dear  Miss 
Devlin." 

Ruth  sat  staring  at  her,  her  deep  eyes  glowing.  Mrs. 
Falchion  continued  :  "  In  short,  he  finds  the  bandbox, 
as  you  call  it,  suited  to  his  renunciations.  Its  simplicities, 
which  he  thinks  is  regeneration,  are  only  new  sensations. 
But— you  have  often  noticed  the  signification  of  a  'but,'" 
she  added  smiling,  tapping  her  cheek  lightly  with  the 
ivory  knife, — "  but  the  hour  arrives  when  the  bandbox 
becomes  a  prison,  when  the  simple  hours  cloy.  Then 
the  ordinary  incident  is  merely  gauche  and  expiation  a 
bore. 

"  I  see  by  your  face  that  you  understand  quite  what  I 
mean.  .  .  ,  Well,  these  things  occasionally  happen. 
The  great  mistake  follows  the  man,  and  by  a  greater 
misery  breaks  the  misery  of  the  bandbox  ;  or  the  man 
himself,  hating  his  captivity,  becomes  reckless,  does  some 
mad  thing,  and  has  a  miserable  end.  Or  again,  some  one 
who  holds  the  key  to  his  mistake  comes  in  from  the 
world  he  has  left,  and  considers,— considers,  you  under- 
stand ! — whether  to  leave  him  to  work  out  his  servitude, 
or,  mercifully,  if  he  is  not  altogether  blind,— permit  him 
the  means  of  escape  to  his  old  world,  to  the  life  to  which 
he  was  born, — away  from  the  bandbox  and  all  therein. 
I  hope  I  have  not  tired  you — I  am  sure  I 
have." 

Ruth  saw  the  full  meaning  of  Mrs.  Falchion's  words. 
She  realized  that  her  happiness,  his  happiness,— every- 


MRS.    FALCHION.  249 

thing— was  at  stake.  All  Mrs.  Falchion's  old  self  was 
battling  with  her  new  self.  She  had  determined  to  abide 
by  the  result  of  this  meeting.  She  had  spoken  in  a  half 
gay  tone,  but  her  words  were  not  everything  ;  the 
woman  herself  was  there,  speaking  in  every  feature  and 
glance.  Ruth  had  listened  with  an  occasional  change  of 
color  but  also  with  an  outward  pride  to  which  she  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  grown.  But  her  heart  was  sick  and 
miserable.  How  could  it  be  otherwise,  reading  as  she 
did,  the  tale  just  told  her  in  a  kind  of  allegory,  in  all  its 
warning,  nakedness,  and  vengeance  ?  But  she  detected, 
too,  an  occasional  painful  movement  of  Mrs.  Falchion's 
lips,  a  kind  of  trouble  in  the  face.  She  noticed  it  at  first 
vaguely  as  she  listened  to  the  music  in  the  other  room  ; 
but  at  length  she  interpreted  it  aright,  and  she  did  not 
despair.  She  did  not  then  follow  her  first  impulse  to 
show  that  she  saw  the  real  meaning  of  that  speech,  and 
rise  and  say,  "  You  are  insulting,"  and  bid  her  good-day. 

After  all,  where  was  the  ground  for  the  charge  of 
insult  ?  The  words  had  been  spoken  impersonally.  So, 
after  a  moment,  she  said,  as  she  drew  a  glove  from  a 
hand  slightly  trembling  :  "  And  you  honestly  think  it  is 
the  case  :  that  one  having  lived  such  a  life  as  you 
describe  so  unusually,  would  never  be  satisfied  with  a 
simple  life  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  never  ; — not  such  a  man  as  I  describe.  I 
know  the  world." 

"  But  suppose  not  quite  such  an  one  ;  suppose  one 
that  had  not  been  so— intense  ;  so  much  the  social  gladi- 
ator ;  who  had  business  of  life  as  well,"— here  the  girl 
grew  pale,  for  this  was  a  kind  of  talk  unfamiliar  and 
painful  to  her,  but  to  be  endured  for  her  cause,—"  as 
well  as  '  the  fleshpots  of  Egypt  ; '  who  had  made  no 
criminal  mistakes  — would    he  necessarily   end    as  you 

say  ? " 

"  I  am  speaking  of  the  kind   of  man  who  had  made 


250  MRS.    FALCHION. 

such  mistakes,  and  he  would  end  as  I  say.  Few  men,  if 
any,  would  leave  the  world  for — the  bandbox,  shall  I 
still  say?  without  having  a  Nemesis." 

"  But  the  Nemesis  need  not,  as  you  say  yourself,  be 
inevitable.  The  person  who  holds  the  key  of  his  life, 
the  impersonation  of  his  mistake " 

"  His  criminal  mistake,"  Mrs.  Falchion  interrupted, 
her  hand  with  the  ivory  knife  now  moveless  in  that  belt 
of  sunlight  across  her  knees. 

"  His  criminal  mistake,"  Ruth  repeated,  wincing, — 
"  might  not  it  become  changed  into  mercy,  and  the  man 
be  safe  ?  " 

"  Safe  ?  Perhaps.  But  he  would  tire  of  the  pinhole 
just  the  same.     .     .     .     My  dear,  you  do  not  know  life." 

"  But,  Mrs.  Falchion,"  said  the  girl,  now  very  bravely, 
"  I  know  the  crude  elements  of  justice.  That  is  one 
plain  thing  taught  here  in  the  mountains.  We  have 
swift  reward  and  punishment — no  hateful  things  called 
Nemesis.  The  meanest  wretch  here  in  the  West,  if  he 
has  a  quarrel  avenges  himself  openly  and  at  once. 
Actions  are  rough  and  ready  perhaps,  but  that  is  our 
simple  way.  Hate  is  manly— and  womanly  too — when 
it  is  open  and  brave.  But  when  it  haunts  and  shadows, 
it  is  not  understood  here." 

Mrs.  Falchion  sat  during  this  speech,  the  fingers  of 
one  hand  idly  drumming  the  arm  of  her  chair,  as  idly  as 
when  on  board  the  Fidvia  she  listened  to  me  telling  that 
story  of  Anson  and  his  wife.  Outwardly  her  coolness 
was  remarkable.  But  she  was  really  admiring,  and 
amazed  at  Ruth's  adroitness  and  courage.  She  appre- 
ciated fully  the  skilful  duel  that  had  kept  things  on  the 
surface,  and  had  committed  neither  of  them  to  anything 
personal.  It  was  a  battle — the  tragical  battle  of  a  draw- 
ing-room. 

When  Ruth  had  ended,  she  said  slowly:  "You  speak 
very  earnestly.      You   do  your  mountains  justice  ;    but 


MRS.    FALCHION.  25  I 

each  world  has  its  code.  It  is  good  for  some  men  to  be 
followed  by  a  slow  hate — it  all  depends  on  themselves. 
There  are  some  who  want  to  meet  their  fate  and  its 
worst,  and  others  who  would  forget  it.  The  latter  are 
in  the  most  danger  always." 

Ruth  rose. 

She  stepped  forward  slightly,  so  that  her  feet  also  were 
within  the  sunlight.  The  other  saw  this  ;  it  appeared  to 
interest  her.  Ruth  looked — as  such  a  girl  can  look — 
with  incredible  sincerity  into  Mrs.  Falchion's  eyes,  and 
said  :  "  Oh,  if  I  knew  such  a  man,  I  would  be  sorry — 
sorry  for  him  ;  and  if  I  also  knew  that  his  was  only  a 
mistake  and  not  a  crime,  or,  if  the  crime  itself  had  been 
repented  of,  and  atonement  made,  I  would  beg  some  one 
— some  one  better  than  I — to  pray  for  him.  And  I 
would  go  to  the  person  who  had  his  life  and  career  at 
disposal,  and  would  say  to  her, — if  it  were  a  woman, — 
Oh,  remember,  that  it  is  not  he  alone  who  would  suffer  ! 
I  would  beg  that  woman — if  it  were  a  woman, — to  be 
merciful,  as  she  one  day  must  ask  for  mercy." 

The  girl  as  she  stood  there,  all  pale,  yet  glowing  with 
the  white  light  of  her  pain,  was  beautiful,  noble,  com- 
pelling. Mrs.  Falchion  now  rose  also.  She  was  altogether 
in  the  sunlight  now.  From  the  piano  in  the  next  room 
came  a  quick  change  of  accompaniment,  and  a  voice  was 
heard  singing,  as  if  to  the  singer's  self,  77  balen  del  suo 
sorris.  It  is  hard  to  tell  how  far  such  little  incidents 
affected  her  in  what  she  did  that  afternoon  ;  but  they 
had  their  influence.  She  said  :  "  You  are  altruistic — or 
are  you  selfish,  or  both  ?  .  .  .  And  should  the  woman 
— if  it  were  a  woman — yield,  and  spare  the  man,  what 
would  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  would  say  that  she  had  been  merciful  and  kind,  and 
that  one  in  this  world  would  pray  for  her  when  she  needed 
prayers  most." 

"  You  mean  when  she  was  old," — Mrs.  Falchion  shrank 


252 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


a  little  at  the  sound  of  her  own  words.  Now  her  careless 
abandon  was  gone  ;  she  seemed  to  be  following  her  emo- 
tions. "  When  she  was  old,"  she  continued,  "  and  came 
to  die  ?  It  is  horrible  to  grow  old,  except  one  has  been 
a  saint— and  a  mother.  .  .  .  And  even  then— have 
you  ever  seen  them,  the  women  of  that  Egypt  of  which 
we  spoke  ? — powdered,  smirking  over  their  champagne, 
because  they  feel  for  an  instant  a  false  pulse  of  their  past  ? 
— See  how  eloquent  your  mountains  make  me  ! — I  think 
that  would  make  one  hard  and  cruel  ;  and  one  would 
need  the  prayers  of  a  churchful  of  good  women,  even  as 
good — as  you." 

She  could  not  resist  a  touch  of  irony  in  the  last  words, 
and  Ruth,  who  had  been  ready  to  kiss  her  hand  impul- 
sively, was  stung.  But  she  replied  nothing,  and  the 
other,  after  waiting,  added,  with  a  sudden  and  wonder- 
ful kindness, — "  I  say  what  is  quite  true.  Women  might 
dislike  you,— many  of  them  would, — though  you  could 
not  understand  why  ;  but  you  are  good,  and  that  I  sup- 
pose is  the  best  thing  in  the  world.  Yes,  you  are  good," 
she  said,  musingly,  and  then  she  leaned  forward  and 
quickly  kissed  the  girl's  cheek.  "  Good-by,"  she  said, 
and  then  she  turned  her  head  resolutely  away. 

They  stood  there  both  in  the  sunlight,  both  very  quiet, 
but  their  hearts  were  throbbing  with  new  sensations. 
Ruth  knew  that  she  had  conquered,  and,  with  her  eyes 
all  tearful,  she  looked  steadily,  yearningly,  at  the  woman 
before  her  ;  but  she  knew  it  was  better  she  should  say 
little  now,  so,  with  a  motion  of  the  hand  in  good-by,— 
she  could  do  no  more,— she  slowly  went  to  the  door. 
There  she  paused  and  looked  back,  but  the  other  was 
still  turned  away. 

For  a  minute  Mrs.  Falchion  stood  looking  at  the  door 
through  which  the  girl  had  passed,  then  she  caught  close 
the  curtains  of  the  window  and  threw  herself  upon  the 
sofa  with  a  sobbing  laugh. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  253 

*  To  her  !  "  she  cried,  "  I  played  the  game  of  mercy  to 
her  !  And  she  has  his  love,  the  love  which  I  rejected 
once,  and  which  I  want  now — to  my  shame  !  A  hateful 
and  terrible  love.  I,  who  ought  to  say  to  him,  as  I  so 
long  determined, — '  You  shall  be  destroyed.  You  killed 
my  sister,  poor  Alo  ;  if  not  with  a  knife  yourself,  you 
killed  her  heart,  and  that  is  just  the  same/  I  never  knew 
until  now  what  a  heart  is  when  killed." 

She  caught  her  breast  as  though  it  hurt  her,  and,  after 
a  moment,  continued  :  "  Do  hearts  always  ache  so  when 
they  love?  I  was  the  wife  of  a  good  man, — oh  !  he  was 
a  good  man,  who  sinned  for  me. — I  see  it  now  ! — and  I  let 
him  die — die  like  a  rat."  She  shuddered  violently.  "Oh, 
now  I  see,  and  I  know  what  love  such  as  his  can  be  !  I 
am  punished — punished  ;  for  my  love  is  impossible,  hor- 
rible." 

There  was  a  long  silence  in  which  she  sat  looking  at 
the  floor,  her  face  gone  grey  with  pain.  At  last  the  door 
of  the  room  softly  opened,  and  Justine  entered. 

"  May  I  come  in,  Madame  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  come,  Justine."  The  voice  was  subdued,  and 
there  was  in  it  what  drew  the  girl  swiftly  to  the  side  of 
Mrs.  Falchion.  She  spoke  no  word,  but  gently  undid 
the  other's  hair,  and  smoothed  and  brushed  it  softly. 

At  last  Mrs.  Falchion  said  :  "  Justine,  on  Monday  we 
will  leave  here." 

The  girl  was  surprised,  but  she  replied  without  com- 
ment,— "  Yes,  Madame  ;  where  do  we  go  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause,  then  :  "  I  do  not  know.  I  want 
to  go  where  I  shall  get  rested.  A  village  in  Italy  or — " 
she  paused. 

"  Or  France,  Madame  ? "     Justine  was  eager. 

Mrs.  Falchion  made  a  helpless  motion  with  her  hand. 
"  Yes,  France  will  do.  .  .  .  The  way  around  the 
world  is  long,  and  I  am  tired."  Minutes  passed,  and  then 
she  slowly  said  :  "  Justine,  we  will  go  to-morrow  night." 


254  MRS-    FALCHION. 

"  Yes,  Madame,  to-morrow  night, — and  not  next  Mon- 
day." 

There  was  a  strange  only  half-veiled  melancholy  in 
Mrs.  Falchion's  next  words  :  "  Do  you  think,  Justine, 
that  I  could  be  happy  anywhere  ?  " 

"  I  think  anywhere  but — here,  Madame. " 

Mrs.  Falchion  rose  to  a  sitting  posture,  and  looked  at 
the  girl  fixedly,  almost  fiercely.  A  crisis  was  at  hand. 
The  pity,  gentleness,  and  honest  solicitude  of  Justine's 
face  conquered  her,  and  her  look  changed  to  one  of 
understanding  and  longing  for  companionship  :  sorrow 
swiftly  welded  their  friendship. 

Before  Mrs.  Falchion  slept  that  night,  she  said  again, — 
"We  will  leave  here  to-morrow,  dear,  forever." 

And  Justine  replied  :  "  Yes,  Madame,  forever." 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

THE    SENTENCE. 

The  next  morning  Roscoe  was  quiet  and  calm,  but  he 
looked  ten  years  older  than  when  I  had  first  seen  him. 
After  breakfast  he  said  to  me  :  "I  have  to  go  to  the 
valley  to  pay  Phil  Boldrick's  friend  the  money  ;  and  to 
see  Mr.  Devlin.  I  shall  be  back,  perhaps,  by  lunch  time. 
Will  you  go  with  me,  or  stay  here  ? ' 

"  I  shall  try  to  get  some  fishing  this  morning,  I  fancy," 
I  said.  "  And  possibly  I  shall  idle  a  good  deal,  for  my 
time  with  you  here  is  shortening,  and  I  want  to  have  a 
great  store  of  laziness  behind  me  for  memory,  when  I've 
got  my  nose  to  the  grindstone." 

He  turned  to  the  door,  and  said  :  "  Marmion,  I  wish 
you  weren't  going.  I  wish  that  we  might  be  comrades 
under  the  same  roof  till — "  He  paused  and  smiled 
strangely. 


MRS.    FALCHION. 


255 


"  Till  the  finish,"  I  added,  "  when  we  should  amble 
grey-headed,  sans  everything,  out  of  the  mad  old  world  ? 
I  imagine  Miss  Belle  Treherne  would  scarcely  fancy 
that.  .  .  .  Still  we  can  be  pals  just  the  same.  Our 
wives  won't  object  to  an  occasional  bout  of  loafing  to- 
gether, will  they  ? " 

I  was  determined  not  to  take  him  too  seriously. 

He  said  nothing,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  gone. 

I  passed  the  morning  idly  enough,  yet  thinking,  too, 
very  much  about  my  friend.  I  was  anxiously  hoping 
that  the  telegram  from  Winnipeg  would  come.  About 
noon  it  came.  It  was  not  known  quite  in  what  part  of 
the  Northwest  Madras  (under  his  new  name)  was,  for  the 
corps  of  mounted  police  had  been  changed  about  recently. 
My  letter  had,  however,  been  forwarded  into  the  wilds. 

I  saw  no  immediate  way  but  to  go  to  Mrs.  Falchion 
and  make  a  bold  bid  for  Roscoe's  peace.  I  had  promised 
Madras  never  to  let  her  know  that  he  was  alive,  but  I 
would  break  the  promise  if  Madras  himself  did  not 
come.  After  considerable  hesitation  I  started.  It  must 
be  remembered  that  the  events  of  the  preceding  chapter 
were  only  known  to  me  afterwards. 

Justine  Caron  was  passing  through  the  hall  of  the 
hotel  when  I  arrived.  After  greetings,  she  said  that 
Mrs.  Falchion  might  see  me,  but  that  they  were  very 
busy  ;  they  were  leaving  in  the  evening  for  the  coast. 
Here  was  a  pleasant  revelation  !  I  was  so  confused  with 
delight  at  the  information,  that  I  could  think  of  nothing 
more  sensible  to  say  than  that  the  unexpected  always 
happens.  By  this  time  we  were  within  Mrs.  Falchion's 
sitting-room.  And  to  my  remark,  Justine  replied  : 
"  Yes,  it  is  so.  One  has  to  reckon  most  with  the  acci- 
dents of  life.  The  expected  is  either  pleasant  or  unpleas* 
ant  ;  there  is  no  middle  place." 

"You  are  growing  philosophic,"  said  I  playfully. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said,  gravely,  "  I  hope  as  I  live  and 
17 


256  MRS.    FALCHION. 

travel,  I  grow  a  little  wiser."  Still  she  lingered,  her 
hand  upon  the  door. 

"  I  had  thought  that  you  were  always  wise." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  How  can  you  say  so  !  I  have  been  very 
foolish  sometimes. "...  She  came  back  towards 
me.     "  If  I  am  wiser  I  am  also  happier,"  she  added. 

In  that  moment  we  understood  each  other  ;  that,  is,  I 
read  how  unselfish  this  girl  could  be,  and  she  knew 
thoroughly  the  source  of  my  anxiety,  and  was  glad  that 
she  could  remove  it. 

"  I  would  not  speak  to  any  one  save  you,"  she  said, 
"  but  do  you  not  also  think  that  it  is  good  we  go  ? " 

"  I  have  been  thinking  so,  but  I  hesitated  to  say  so," 
was  my  reply. 

"  You  need  not  hesitate,"  she  said  earnestly.  "We 
have  both  understood,  and  I  know  that  you  are  to  be 
trusted." 

"Not  always,"  I  said,  remembering  that  one  experi- 
ence of  mine  with  Mrs.  Falchion  on  the  Fulvia. 

Holding  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  looking  earnestly 
at  me,  she  continued  :  "  Once,  on  the  vessel,  you  re- 
member, in  a  hint  so  very  little,  I  made  it  appear  that 
Madame  was  selfish.  ...  I  am  sorry.  Her  heart 
was  asleep.  Now,  it  is  awake.  She  is  unselfish.  The 
accident  of  our  going  away  is  hers.  She  goes  to  leave 
peace  behind." 

"  I  am  most  glad,"  said  I.  "  And  you  think  there  will 
be  peace  ? " 

"  Surely,  since  this  has  come  that  will  come  also." 

"  And  you — Justine  Caron  ?  "  I  should  not  have 
asked  that  question  had  I  known  more  of  the  world.  It 
was  tactless  and  unkind. 

"  For  me  it  is  no  matter  at  all.  I  do  not  come  in  any- 
where.    As  I  said,  I  am  happy." 

And  turning  quickly,  yet  not  so  quickly  but  I  saw  her 
cheeks  were  flushed,  she  passed  out  of  the  room. 


MRS.    FALCHION.  257 

In  a  moment  Mrs.  Falchion  entered.  There  was 
something  new  in  her  carriage,  in  her  person.  She 
came  towards  me,  held  out  her  hand,  and  said,  with  the 
same  old  half-quizzical  tone  :  "  Have  you,  with  your  un- 
erring instinct,  guessed  that  I  was  leaving,  and  so  come 
to  say  good-by  ?  " 

"  You  credit  me  too  highly.  No,  I  came  to  see  you 
because  I  had  an  inclination.  I  did  not  guess  that 
you  were  going  until  Miss  Caron  told  me." 

"  An  inclination  to  see  me  is  not  your  usual  instinct, 
is  it  ?  Was  it  some  special  impulse  based  on  a  scientific 
calculation  (at  which,  I  suppose,  you  are  an  adept),  or 
curiosity  ?  Or  had  it  a  purpose  ?  Or  were  you  bored, 
and  therefore  sought  the  most  startling  experience  you 
could  conceive  ?  "  She  deftly  rearranged  some  flowers 
in  a  jar. 

"  I  can  plead  innocence  of  all  directly ;  I  am  guilty  of 
all  indirectly. — I  was  impelled  to  come.  I  reasoned — if 
that  is  scientific — on  what  I  should  say  if  I  did  come, 
knowing  how  inclined  I  was  to " 

"  To  get  beyond  my  depth,"  she  interrupted,  and  she 
motioned  me  to  a  chair. 

"Well,  let  it  be  so,"  said  I. — "  I  was  curious  to  know 
what  kept  you  in  this  sylvan,  and  I  fear,  to  you,  half- 
barbaric  spot.  I  was  bored  with  myself  ;  and  I  had  some 
purpose  in  coming,  or  I  should  not  have  had  the  impulse." 

She  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair  easily,  not  languidly. 
She  seemed  reposeful  yet  alert. 

"  How  wonderfully  you  talk  !  "  she  said  with  good- 
natured  mockery.  "  You  are  scientifically  frank.  You 
were  bored  with  yourself. — Then  there  is  some  hope  for 
your  future  wife.  .  .  .  We  have  had  many  talks  in 
our  acquaintance,  Dr.  Marmion  ;  but  none  so  interesting 
as  this  promises  to  be.  But  now  tell  me  what  your  pur- 
pose was  in  coming.  '  Purpose  '  seems  portentous,  but 
quite  in  keeping." 


258  MRS.    FALCHION. 

I  noticed  here  the  familiar  almost  imperceptible  click 
of  the  small  white  teeth. 

I  was  so  glad  she  was  going  that  I  was  playful, 
elated.  "  My  purpose,"  said  I,  "  has  no  point  now  ;  for 
even  if  I  were  to  propose  to  amuse  you — I  believe  that 
was  the  old  formula — by  an  idle  day  somewhere,  by  an 
excursion,  an " 

"  An  autobiography  ? "  she  broke  in  soothingly. 

"  Or  an  autobiography,"  I  repeated  stolidly,  "  you 
would  not,  I  fancy,  be  prepared  to  accept  my  services. 
There  would  be  no  chance — now  that  you  are  going 
away — for  me  to  play  the  harlequin " 

"  Whose  office  you  could  do  pleasantly  if  it  suited 
you — these  adaptable  natures  !  " 

"  Quite  so.     But  it  is  all  futile  now,  as  I  say." 

"  Yes,  you  mentioned  that  before. — Well  ?  " 

"//  is  well"  I  replied,  dropping  into  a  more  meaning 
tone. 

"  You  say  it  patriarchally  but  yet  flatteringly."  Here 
she  casually  offered  me  a  flower.  I  mechanically  placed 
it  in  my  button-hole.  She  seemed  delighted  at  confus- 
ing me.     But  I  kept  on  firmly. 

"  I  do  not  think,"  I  rejoined  gravely  now,  "  that  there 
need  be  any  flattery  between  us." 

"  Why  ? — We  are  not  married." 

"  That  is  as  radically  true  as  it  is  epigrammatic," 
blurted  I. 

"  And  truth  is  more  than  epigram  ?  " 

"  One  should  delight  in  truth  ;  I  do  delight  in  epi- 
gram ;  there  seems  little  chance  for  choice  here." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  said  quite  what  I  wished 
there,  but  she  only  looked  at  me  enigmatically. 

She  arranged  a  flower  in  her  dress  as  she  almost 
idly  replied,  though  she  did  not  look  me  full  in  the 
face  as  she  had  done  before, — "  Well  then,  let  me 
add  to  your  present  delight  by  saying  that  you  may 


MRS.    FALCHION.  259 

go  play  till   doomsday,   Ur.   Marmion.      Your   work   is 
done." 

"  I  do  not  understand." 

Her  eyes  were  on  me  now  with  the  directness  she 
could  so  well  use  at  need. 

"  I  did  not  suppose  you  would,  despite  your  many 
lessons  at  my  hands.  You  have  been  altruistic,  Dr. 
Marmion  ;  I  fear,  critical  people  would  say  that  you 
meddled.  I  shall  only  say  that  you  are  inquiring — 
scientific,  or  feminine — what  you  please  !  .  .  .  You 
can  now  yield  up  your  portfolio  of— foreign  affairs — of 
war — shall  I  say  ?  and  retire  into  sedative  habitations, 
which,  believe  me,  you  become  best.  .  .  .  What  con- 
cerns me  need  concern  you  no  longer.  The  enemy 
retreats.  She  offers  truce — without  conditions.  She 
retires.  ...  Is  that  enough  for  even  you,  Professor 
Marmion  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Falchion,"  I  said,  finding  it  impossible  to 
understand  why  she  had  so  suddenly  determined  to  go 
away  (for  I  did  not  know  all  the  truth  until  afterwards 
— some  of  it  long  afterwards),  "  it  is  more  than  I  dared 
to  hope  for,  though,  less,  I  know,  than  you  have  heart  to 
do  if  you  willed  so.  I  know  that  you  hold  some  power 
over  my  friend." 

"  Do  not  think,"  she  said,  "  that  you  have  had  the  least 
influence.  What  you  might  think  or  may  have  intended 
to  do  has  not  moved  me  in  the  least.  I  have  had  wrongs 
that  you  do  not  know.  I  have  changed, — that  is  all.  I 
admit,  I  intended  to  do  Gait  Roscoe  harm.  I  thought 
he  deserved  it.  That  is  over.  After  to-night,  it  is  not 
probable  that  we  shall  meet  again.  I  hope  that  we  shall 
not  ;  as,  doubtless,  is  your  own  mind." 

She  kept  looking  at  me  with  that  new  deep  look  which 
I  had  seen  when  she  first  entered  the  room. 

I  was  moved,  and  I  saw  that  just  at  the  last  she  had 
spoken  under  considerable  strain.     "  Mrs.  Falchion,"  said 


26o  MRS.    FALCHION. 

I,  "  I  have  thought  harder  things  of  you  than  I  ever  said 
to  anyone.  Pray  believe  that,  and  believe  also,  that  I 
never  tried  to  injure  you.  For  the  rest,  I  can  make  no  com- 
plaint. You  do  not  like  me.  I  liked  you  once  and  do  now 
when  you  do  not  depreciate  yourself  of  purpose.  .  .  . 
Pardon  me,  but  I  say  this  very  humbly  too.  ...  I  sup- 
pose I  always  shall  like  you,  in  spite  of  myself.  You  are 
one  of  the  most  gifted  and  fascinating  women  that  I  ever 
met.     I  have  been  anxious  for  my  friend.     I  was  concerned 

to  make  peace  between  you  and  your  husband " 

"  The  man  who  was  my  husband,"  she  interrupted 
musingly. 

"  Your  husband — whom  you  so  cruelly  treated.  But 
I  confess  I  have  found  it  impossible  to  withhold  admira- 
tion of  you." 

For  a  long  time  she  did  not  reply,  but  she  never  took 
her  eyes  off  my  face,  as  she  leaned  slightly  forward. 
Then  at  last  she  spoke  more  gently  than  I  had  ever 
heard  her,  and  a  glow  came  upon  her  face. 

"  I   am  only  human.      You   have    me    at    advantage. 
What  woman  could  reply  unkindly  to  a  speech  like  that  ? 
I  admit  I  thought  you  held  me  utterly  bad  and  heartless, 
and  it  made  me  bitter.    ...    I  had  no  heart— once.     I 
had  only  a  wrong,  an  injury,  which  was  in  my  mind  ;  not 
mine,  but  another's,  and  yet  mine.     Then  strange  things 
occurred.     ...     At  last  I  relented.     I  saw  that  I  had 
better  go.     Yesterday  I  saw  that  ;  and  I  am  going— that 
is  enough.    ...    I  wished  to  keep  the  edge  of  my  inter- 
course with  you  sharp  and  uncompanionable  to  the  end  ; 
but  you  have  forced  me  at  my  weakest  point.     .     .     ." 
Here  she  smiled  somewhat  painfully.     ..."  Believe 
me,  that  is  the  way  to  turn  a  woman's  weapon  upon  her- 
self.    You  have  learned  much  since  we  first  met.     .     .     . 
Here  is  my  hand    in  friendliness,  if  you  care  to  take  it  ; 
and  in  good-by,  should  we  not  meet  again  more  formally 
before  I  go." 


MRS.    FALCHION.  261 

w  I  wish  now  that  your  husband,  Boyd  Madras,  was 
here,"  I  said. 

She  answered  nothing,  but  she  did  not  resent  it ;  she 
only  shuddered  a  little. 

Our  hands  grasped  silently.  I  was  too  choked  to 
speak,  and  I  left  her.  At  that  moment  she  blinded  me  to 
all  her  faults.     She  was  a  wonderful  woman. 

Gait  Roscoe  had  walked  slowly  along  the  forest-road 
towards  the  valley,  his  mind  in  that  state  of  calm  which, 
in  some,  might  be  thought  numbness  of  sensation,  in 
others  fortitude — the  prerogative  of  despair.  He  came 
to  the  point  of  land  jutting  out  over  the  valley,  where  he 
had  stood  with  Mrs.  Falchion,  Justine,  and  myself,  on 
the  morning  of  Phil  Boldrick's  death. 

He  looked  for  a  long  time,  and  then,  slowly  descend- 
ing  the  hillside,  made  his  way  to  Mr.  Devlin's  office. 
He  found  Phil's  pal  awaiting  him  there.  After  a  few 
preliminaries,  the  money  was  paid  over,  and  Kilby 
said  : — 

"  I've  been  to  see  his  camping-ground.  It's  right 
enough.  Viking  has  done  it  noble.  .  .  .  Now, 
here's  what  I'm  goin'  to  do  ;  I'm  goin'  to  open  bottles 
for  all  that'll  drink  success  to  Viking.  A  place  that's 
stood  by  my  pal,  I  stand  by, — but  not  with  his  money, 
mind  you  !  No,  that  goes  to  you,  Padre,  for  hospital 
purposes.  My  gift  an'  his.  .  .  .  So,  sit  down  and 
write  a  receipt  or  whatever  it's  called,  accordin'  to  Hoyle, 
and  you'll  do  me  proud." 

Roscoe  did  as  he  requested,  and  handed  the  money 
over  to  Mr.  Devlin  for  safe  keeping  ;  remarking  at  the 
same  time,  that  the  matter  should  be  announced  on  a 
bulletin  outside  the  office  at  once. 

As  Kilby  stood  chewing  the  end  of  a  cigar  and  listen- 
ing to  the  brief  conversation  between  Roscoe  and  Mr. 
Devlin,  perplexity  crossed  his  face.     He  said  as  Roscoe 


262  MRS.    FALCHION. 

turned  round  :  "  There's  something  catchy  about  your 
voice,  Padre.  I  don't  know  what ;  but  it's  familiar-like. 
You  never  was  on  the  Panama  level,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"  Nor  in  Australia  ?  " 

"Yes,  in  1876." 

"  I  wasn't  there  then." 

Roscoe  grew  a  shade  paler,  but  was  firm  and  com- 
posed. He  was  determined  to  answer  truthfully  any 
question  that  was  asked  him,  wherever  it  might  lead. 

"  Nor  in  Samoa  ?  " 

There  was  the  slightest  pause,  and  then  the  reply 
came  : 

"  Yes,  in  Samoa." 

"  Not  a  missionary,  by  gracious  !  Not  a  mickonarie  in 
Samoa  ?  " 

"  No."  He  said  toothing  further.  He  did  not  feel 
bound  to  incriminate  himself  voluntarily. 

"  No  ?  Well  you  wasn't  a  beachcomber,  nor  trader, 
I'll  swear.  Was  you  there  in  the  last  half  of  the  Seven- 
ties ? — That's  when  I  was  there." 

"  Yes."     The  reply  was  quiet. 

"  By  Jingo  !  "  The  man's  face  was  puzzled.  He  was 
about  to  speak  again  ;  but  at  that  moment  two  river- 
drivers — boon  companions  who  had  been  hanging  about 
the  door — urged  him  to  come  to  the  tavern.  This  dis- 
tracted him.  He  laughed  and  said  that  he  was  coming, 
and  then  again,  though  with  less  persistency,  questioned 
Roscoe.     "  You  don't  remember  me,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No,  I  never  saw  you,  so  far  as  1  know,  until  yester- 
day." 

"  No  ?  Still,  I've  heard  your  voice.  It  keeps  swingin' 
in  my  ears  ;  and  I  can't  remember.  ...  I  can't  re- 
member !  .  .  .  But  we'll  have  a  spin  about  it  again, 
Padre."  He  turned  to  the  impatient  men.  "All  right, 
bully-boys,  I'm  comin'." 


MRS.    FALCHION.  263 

At  the  door  he  turned  and  looked  again  at  Roscoe 
with  a  sharp  half-amused  scrutiny,  then  the  two  parted. 

Kilby  kept  his  word.  He  was  liberal  to  Viking  ;  and 
Phil's  memory  was  drunk,  not  in  silence,  many  times  that 
day.  So  that  when,  in  the  afternoon,  he  made  up  his  mind 
to  keep  his  engagement  with  Mrs.  Falchion,  and  left  the 
valley  for  the  hills,  he  was  not  entirely  sober.  But  he 
was  apparently  good-natured.  As  he  idled  along  he 
talked  to  himself,  and  finally  broke  out  into  singing  : — 

"  '  Then  swing  the  long  boat  down  the  drink, 
For  the  lads  as  pipe  to  go  ; 
But  I  sink  when  the  Lovely  Jane  does  sink, 
To  the  mermaids  down  below. 

"  '  The  long  boat  bides  on  its  strings,'  says  we, 
'  An'  we  bides  where  the  long  boat  bides  ; 
And  we'll  bluff  this  equatorial  sea, 
Or  swallow  its  hurricane  tides.' 

"  But  the  Lovely  Jane  she  didn't  go  down, 
An'  she  anchored  at  the  Spicy  Isles  ; 
An'  she  sailed  again  to  Wellington  Town — 
A  matter  of  a  thousand  miles." 

It  will  be  remembered  that  this  is  part  of  the  song 
sung  by  Gait  Roscoe  on  the  Whi-Whi  River,  the  day  we 
rescued  Mrs.  Falchion  and  Justine  Caron.  Kilby  sang 
the  whole  song  over  to  himself  until  he  reached  a  point 
overlooking  the  valley.  Then  he  stood  silent  for  a  time, 
his  glance  upon  the  town.  The  walk  had  sobered  him  a 
little.  "  Phil,  old  pal,"  he  said  at  last,  "  you  ain't  got  the 
taste  of  raw  whiskey  with  you  now.  When  a  man  loses 
a  pal  he  loses  a  grip  on  the  world  equal  to  all  that  pal's 
grip  was  worth.  .  .  I'm  drunk,  and  Phil's  down  there 
among  the  worms — among  the  worms  !  .  .  .  Ah  !  " 
he  added  in  disgust,  and,  dashing  his  hand  across  his 
eyes,  struck  off  into  the  woods  again,  making  his  way  to 
the  summer  hotel  where  he  had  promised  to  meet  Mrs. 


264  MRS.    FALCHION. 

Falchion.  He  inquired  for  her,  creating  some  astonish- 
ment by  his  uncouth  appearance  and  unsteady  manner. 

He  learned  from  Justine  that  Mrs.  Falchion  had  gone 
to  see  Roscoe,  and  that  he  would  probably  meet  her  if  he 
went  that  way.  This  he  did.  He  was  just  about  to 
issue  into  a  partly  open  space  by  a  ravine  near  the  house, 
when  he  heard  voices  and  his  own  name  mentioned. 
He  stilled  and  listened. 

"Yes,  Gait  Roscoe,"  said  a  voice,  "Sam  Kilby  is  the 
man  that  loved  Alo — loved  her  not  as  you  did.  He 
would  have  given  her  a  home,  have  made  her  happy, 
maybe.  You,  when  Kilby  was  away,  married  her — in 
native  fashion  ! — which  is  no  marriage — and  killed  her." 

"  No,  no,  not  killed  her  !  that  is  not  so.  As  God  is 
my  judge,  that  is  not  so." 

"  You  did  not  kill  her  with  the  knife  ?  .  .  .  Well, 
I  will  be  candid  now,  and  say  that  I  believe  that,  what- 
ever I  may  have  hinted  or  said  before.  But  you  killed 
her  just  the  same  when  you  left  her." 

"  Mercy  Falchion,"  he  said  desperately,  "  I  will  not  try 
to  palliate  my  sin.  But  still  I  must  set  myself  right  with 
you  in  so  far  as  I  can.  The  very  night  Alo  killed  herself 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  leave  the  Navy.  I  was  going 
to  send  in  my  papers,  come  back  to  Apia,  and  marry  her 
as  Englishmen  are  married.  While  I  remained  in  the 
Navy  I  could  not,  as  you  know,  marry  her.  It  would  be 
impossible  to  an  English  officer.  I  intended  to  come  back 
and  be  regularly  married  to  her." 

"  You  say  that  now,"  was  the  cold  reply. 

"  But  it  is  the  truth,  the  truth  indeed.  Nothing  that 
you  might  say  could  make  me  despise  myself  more  than  I 
do  ;  but  I  have  told  you  all,  as  I  shall  have  to  tell  it  one 
day  before  a  just  God.  You  have  spared  me  ;  He  will 
not." 

"Gait  Roscoe,"  she  replied,  "  I  am  not  merciful,  nor 
am  I  just.     I  intended  to  injure  you,  though  you  will 


MRS.    FALCHION.  265 

remember  I  saved  your  life  that  night  by  giving  you  a 
boat  for  escape  across  the  bay  to  the  Porcupine,  which 
was  then  under  way.  The  band  on  board,  you  also 
remember,  was  playing  the  music  of  La  Grande  Duchesse. 
You  fired  on  the  natives  who  followed.  Well,  Sam  Kilby 
was  with  them.  Your  brother  officers  did  not  know  the 
cause  of  the  trouble.  It  was  not  known  to  anyone  in 
Apia  exactly  who  it  was  that  Kilby  and  the  natives  had 
tracked  from  Alo's  hut." 

He  drew  his  hand  across  his  forehead  dazedly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  !  "  he  said.  "  I  would  to  God  I 
had  faced  the  matter  there  and  then  !  It  would  have  been 
better." 

"  I  doubt  that,"  she  replied.  "  The  natives  who  saw 
you  coming  from  Alo's  hut,  did  not  know  you.  You 
wisely  came  straight  to  the  consul's  office — my  father's 
house.  And  I  helped  you,  though  Alo,  half-caste  Alo — 
was  my  sister  !  " 

Roscoe  started  back.  "  Alo — your — sister  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed in  horror. 

"  Yes,  though  I  did  not  know  it  till  afterwards,  not  till 
just  before  my  father  died.  Alo's  father  was  my  father  ; 
and  her  mother  had  been  honestly  married  to  my  father 
by  a  missionary  ;  though,  for  my  sake,  it  had  never  been 
made  known.  You  remember  also  that  you  carried  on 
your  relations  with  Alo  secretly,  and  my  father  never 
suspected  it  was  you. " 

"  Your  sister  !  "     Roscoe  was  white  and  sick. 

"  Yes.  And  now  you  understand  my  reason  for  wish- 
ing you  ill,  and  for  hating  you  to  the  end." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  despairingly,  "  I  see." 

She  was  determined  to  preserve  before  him  the  outer 
coldness  of  her  nature  to  the  last. 

"  Let  us  reckon  together,"  she  said.  "  I  helped  to — 
in  fact,  I  saved  your  life  at  Apia.  You  helped  to  save 
my  life  at  the  Devil's  Slide.     That  is  balanced.     You  did 


266  MRS.    FALCHION. 

me_ the  honor,  to  say  that  you  loved  me  once.  Well, 
one  of  my  race  loved  you.  That  is  balanced  also.  My 
sister's  death  came  through  you.  There  is  no  balance 
to  that.  What  shall  balance  Alo's  death  ?  .  .  .  I 
leave  you  to  think  that  over.  It  is  worth  thinking  about. 
I  shall  keep  your  secret  too.  Kilby  does  not  know  you. 
I  doubt  that  he  ever  saw  you,  though,  as  I  said,  he  fol- 
lowed you  with  the  natives  that  night  in  Apia.  He  was 
to  come  to  see  me  to-day.  I  think  I  intended  to  tell 
him  all,  and  shift — the  duty — of  punishment  on  his 
shoulders,  which  I  don't  doubt  he  would  fulfil.  But  he 
shall  not  know.  Do  not  ask  why.  I  have  changed  my 
mind,  that  is  all.  But  still  the  account  remains  a  long 
one.  You  will  have  your  life-time  to  reckon  with  it,  free 
from  any  demonstration  on  my  part  ;  for,  if  I  can  help  it, 
we  shall  never  meet  again  in  this  world — never  !  .  .  . 
And  now,  good-by  !  " 

Without  a  gesture  of  farewell  she  turned  and  left  him 
standing  there,  in  misery  and  bitterness,  but  in  a  thank- 
fulness too,  more  for  Ruth's  sake  than  his  own.  He 
raised  his  arms  with  a  despairing  motion,  then  let  them 
drop  heavily  to  his  side.     .     .     . 

And  then  two  strong  hands  caught  his  throat,  a  body 
pressed  hard  against  him,  and  he  was  borne  backwards — 
backwards — to  the  cliff ! 


CHAPTER  XX. 

AFTER    THE    STORM. 


I  was  sitting  on  the  veranda,  writing  a  letter  to  Belle 
Treherne.  The  substantial  peace  of  a  mountain  even- 
ing was  on  me.  The  air  was  clear,  and  full  of  the  scent 
of  the  pines  and  cedars,  and  the  rumble  of  the  rapids 


MRS.    FALCHION.  267 

came  musically  down  the  canon.  I  lifted  my  head  and 
saw  an  eagle  sailing  away  to  the  snow-topped  peak  of 
Trinity,  and  then  turned  to  watch  the  orioles  in  the 
trees.  The  hour  was  delightful.  It  made  me  feel  how 
grave  mere  living  is,  how  noble  even  the  meanest  of  us 
becomes  sometimes, — in  those  big  moments  when  we 
think  the  world  was  built  for  us.  It  is  half  egotism,  half 
divinity  ;  but  why  quarrel  with  it? 

I  was  young,  ambitious  ;  and  Love  and  I  were  at  that 
moment  the  only  figures  in  the  universe  really  deserving 
attention  !  I  looked  on  down  a  lane  of  cedars  before 
me,  seeing  in  imagination  a  long  procession  of  pleasant 
things  ;  of  —  As  I  looked  another  procession  moved 
through  the  creatures  of  my  dreams,  so  that  they  shrank 
away  timidly,  then  utterly,  and  this  new  procession  came 
on  and  on,  until — I  suddenly  rose,  and  started  forward 
fearfully,  to  see — unhappy  reality  ! — the  body  of  Gait 
Roscoe  carried  towards  me. 

Then  a  cold  wind  seemed  to  blow  from  the  glacier 
above,  and  killed  all  the  summer.  A  man  whispered  to 
me  :  "  We  found  him  at  the  bottom  of  the  ravine 
yonder.     He'd  fallen  over,  I  suppose." 

I  felt  his  heart.  "  He  is  not  dead,"  I  said.  "  Thank 
God  !  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  other,  "  but  he's  smashed." 

They  brought  him  in  and  laid  him  on  his  bed.  I  sent 
one  of  the  party  for  the  doctor  at  Viking,  and  myself 
set  to  work,  with  what  appliances  I  had,  to  deal  with  the 
dreadful  injuries.  When  the  doctor  came,  together  we 
made  him  into  the  semblance  of  a  man  again.  His  face 
was  but  slightly  injured,  though  his  head  had  received 
severe  hurts.  I  think  that  I,  alone,  saw  the  marks  on 
his  throat ;  and  I  hid  them.  I  guessed  the  cause,  but 
held  my  peace. 

I  had  sent  round  at  once  to  James  Devlin  (but  asked 
him  not  to  come  till  morning),  and  also  to   Mrs.  Fal- 


268  MRS.    FALCHION, 

chion  ;  but  I  begged  her  not  to  come  at  all.  I  might 
have  spared  her  that ;  for,  as  I  afterwards  knew,  she 
had  no  intention  of  coming.  She  had  learned  of  the 
accident  on  her  way  to  Viking,  and  had  turned  back  ; 
but  only  to  wait  and  know  the  worst  or  the  best. 

About  midnight  I  was  left  alone  with  Roscoe.  Once 
earlier  in  the  evening  he  had  recognized  me  and  smiled 
faintly,  but  I  had  shaken  my  head,  and  he  had  said 
nothing.  Now,  however,  he  was  looking  at  me  earnestly. 
I  did  not  speak.  What  he  had  to  tell  me  was  best  told 
in  his  own  time. 

At  last,  he  said  faintly, — "  Marmion,  shall  I  die  soon  ?  " 

I  knew  that  frankness  was  best,  and  I  replied  :  "  I 
can't  tell,  Roscoe.     There  is  a  chance  of  your  living." 

He  moved  his  head  sadly.     "  A  very  faint  chance  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  faint  one,  but " 

"  Yes  ?  '  But '  ?  "  He  looked  at  me  as  though  he 
wished  it  over. 

"  But  it  rests  with  you  whether  the  chance  is  worth 
anything.     If  you  are  content  to  die,  it  is  gone." 

"  I  am  content  to  die,"  he  replied. 

"And  there,"  said  I,  "you  are  wrong  and  selfish. 
You  have  Ruth  to  live  for.  Besides,  if  you  are  given 
the  chance,  you  commit  suicide  if  you  don't  take  it." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  then  he  said  :  "  You  are 
right,  I'll  live  if  I  can,  Marmion." 

"And  now  you  are  right."  I  nodded  soothingly  to 
him,  and  then  asked  him  to  talk  no  more  ;  for  I  knew 
that  fever  would  soon  come  on. 

He  lay  for  a  moment  silent,  but  at  length  whispered  : 
"Did  you  know  it  was  not  a  fall  I  had  ?"  He  raised 
his  chin,  and  stretched  his  throat  slightly,  with  a  kind  of 
trembling. 

"  I  thought  it  was  not  a  fall,"  I  replied. 

"  It  was  Phil's  pal— Kilby." 

"  I  thought  that." 


MRS.    FALCHION.  269 

"  How  could  you — think  it  ?  Did — others — think — 
So  ?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"  No,  not  others  ;  I  alone.  They  thought  it  accident  ; 
they  could  have  no  ground  for  suspicion.  But  I  had  ; 
and  besides,  there  were  marks  on  your  throat." 

"  Nothing  must  happen  to  him,  you  understand.  He 
had  been  drinking,  and — and  he  was  justified.  I  wronged 
him  in  Samoa,  him  and  Mrs.  Falchion." 

I  nodded  and  put  a  finger  on  my  lips. 

Again  there  was  silence.  I  sat  and  watched  him.  His 
eyes  closed,  his  body  was  motionless.  He  slept  for 
hours  so,  and  then  he  waked  rather  sharply,  and  said 
half  deliriously, — "  I  could  have  dragged  him  with  me, 
Marmion." 

"  But  you  didn't.  Yes,  I  understand.  Go  to  sleep 
again,  Roscoe." 

Later  on  the  fever  came,  and  he  moaned  and  moved 
his  head  about.  He  could  not  move  his  body, — -it  was 
too  much  injured. 

There  was  a  source  of  fear  in  Kilby.  Would  he  reck- 
lessly announce  what  he  had  done,  and  the  cause  of  it  ? 
After  thinking  it  over  and  over,  I  concluded  that  he 
would  not  disclose  his  crimes.  My  conclusions  were 
right,  as  after  events  showed. 

As  for  Roscoe,  I  feared  that  if  he  lived  he  must  go 
through  life  maimed.  He  had  a  private  income  ;  there- 
fore if  he  determined  to  work  no  more  in  the  ministry, 
he  would,  at  least,  have  the  comforts  of  life. 

Ruth  Devlin  came.  I  went  to  Roscoe  and  told  him 
that  she  wished  to  see  him.  He  smiled  sorrowfully 
and  said  :  "  To  what  end,  Marmion  ?  I  am  a  drift- 
ing wreck.  It  will  only  shock  her."  I  think  he  thought 
she  would  not  love  him  now  if  he  lived — a  crippled 
man. 

"  But  is  this  noble  ?     Is  it  just  to  her  ?  "  said  I. 

After  a  long  time  he  answered  :  "  You  are  right  again, 


270  MRS.    FALCHION. 

quite  right.  I  am  selfish.  When  one  is  shaking  between 
life  and  death  one  thinks  most  of  one's  self." 

"  She  will  help  to  bring  you  back  from  those  places, 
Roscoe." 

"  If  I  am  delirious  ever,  do  not  let  her  come,  will  you, 
Marmion  ?     Promise  me  that."     I  promised. 

I  went  to  her.  She  was  very  calm  and  womanly. 
She  entered  the  room,  went  quietly  to  his  bedside  and, 
sitting  down,  took  his  hand.  Her  smile  was  pitiful  and 
anxious,  but  her  words  were  brave. 

li  Gait,  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  am  sorry.  But  you  will 
soon  be  well,  so  we  must  be  as  patient  and  cheerful  as 
we  can." 

His  eyes  answered,  but  he  did  not  speak.  She  leaned 
over  and  kissed  his  cheek.  Then  he  said  :  "  I  hope  I 
may  get  well." 

"  This  was  the  shadow  over  you,"  she  ventured. 
"  This  was  your  presentiment  of  trouble—this  accident." 

"Yes,  this  was  the  shadow." 

Some  sharp  thought  seemed  to  move  her,  for  her  eyes 
grew  suddenly  hard,  and  she  stooped  and  whispered  : 
"  Was  she  there — when — it  happened,  Gait  ?  " 

He  shrank  from  the  question,  but  he  said  immediately, 
"  No,  she  was  not  there." 

"I  am  glad,"  she  added,  "that  it  was  only  an  acci- 
dent." 

Her  eyes  grew  clear  of  their  momentary  hardness. 
There  is  nothing  in  life  like  the  anger  of  one  woman 
against  another  concerning  a  man. 

Justine  Caron  came  to  the  house,  pale  and  anxious,  to 
inquire.  Mrs.  Falchion,  she  said,  was  not  going  away 
until  she  knew  how  Mr.  Roscoe's  illness  would  turn. 

"  Miss  Caron,"  I  said  to  her,  "  do  you  not  think  it  bet- 
ter that  she  should  go?" 

"  Yes,  for  him,  but  she  grieves  now." 

"  For  him  ?  " 


MRS.    FALCHION.  271 

"  Not  alone  for  him,"  was  the  reply.  There  was  a 
pause,  and  then  she  continued  :  "  Madame  told  me  to 
say  to  you  that  she  did  not  wish  Mr.  Roscoe  to  know 
that  she  was  still  here." 

I  assured  her  that  I  understood,  and  then  she  added 
mournfully  :  "  I  cannot  help  you  now,  monsieur,  as  I  did 
on  board  the  Fulvia.  But  he  will  be  better  cared  for  in 
Miss  Devlin's  hands,  the  poor  lady  !  ...  Do  you 
think  that  he  will  live  ?" 

"  I  hope  so.     I  am  not  sure." 

Her  eyes  went  to  tears  ;  and  then  I  tried  to  speak 
more  encouragingly. 

All  day  people  came  to  inquire  ;  chief  among  them 
Mr.  Devlin,  whose  great  heart  split  itself  in  humanity  and 
compassion.  "  The  price  of  the  big  mill  for  the  guar- 
antee of  his  life  !  "  he  said  over  and  over  again.  "We 
can't  afford  to  let  him  go." 

Although  I  should  have  been  on  my  way  back  to 
Toronto,  I  determined  to  stay  until  Roscoe  was  entirely 
out  of  danger.  It  was  singular,  but  in  this  illness, 
though  the  fever  was  high,  he  never  was  delirious.  It 
would  almost  seem  as  if,  having  paid  his  penalty,  the 
brain  was  at  rest. 

While  Roscoe  hovered  between  life  and  death,  Mr. 
Devlin,  who  persisted  that  he  would  not  die,  was  plan- 
ning for  a  new  hospital  and  a  new  church,  of  which  Ros- 
coe should  be  president  and  padre  respectively.  But 
the  suspense  to  us  all,  for  many  days,  was  very  great  ; 
until,  one  morning  when  the  birds  were  waking  the 
cedars,  and  the  snow  on  Mount  Trinity  was  flashing  cool- 
ness down  the  hot  valley,  he  waked  and  said  to  me  : 
"  Marmion,  old  fellow,  it's  morning  at  last." 

"  Yes,  it's  morning,"  said  I.  "  And  you  are  going  to 
live  now  ?  You  are  going  to  be  reasonable  and  give  the 
earth  another  chance  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  shall  live  now." 
rS 


272  MRS.    FALCHION. 

To  cheer  him  I  told  him  what  Mr.  Devlin  intended  and 
had  planned  ;  how  river-drivers  and  salmon-fishers  came 
every  day  from  the  valley  to  inquire  after  him.  (I  did 
not  tell  him  that  there  had  been  one  Or  two  disturb- 
ances between  the  river-drivers  and  the  salmon-fishers.) 
I  tried  to  let  him  see  that  there  need  be  no  fresh  change 
in  his  life.     At  length  he  interrupted  me. 

"  Marmion,"  he  said,  "  I  understand  what  you  mean. 
It  would  be  cowardly  of  me  to  leave  here  now  if  I  were 
a  whole  man.  I  am  true  in  intention,  God  knows,  but  I 
must  carry  a  crippled  arm  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  must  I 
not  ?  .  .  .  and  a  crippled  Padre  is  not  the  kind  of  man 
for  this  place.     They  want  men  straight  on  their  feet." 

"  Do  you  think,"  I  answered,  "  that  they  will  not  be 
able  to  stand  the  test  ?  You  gave  them — shall  I  say  it  ? 
— a  crippled  mind  before  ;  you  give  them  a  crippled 
body  now.  Well,  where  do  you  think  the  odds  lie  ? 
I  should  fancy,  with  you  as  you  are." 

There  was  a  long  silence  in  which  neither  of  us  moved. 
At  last  he  turned  his  face  towards  the  window,  and  not 
looking  at  me,  said  lingeringly  :  lt  This  is  a  pleasant 
place." 

I  knew  that  he  would  remain. 

I  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Falchion  during  Roscoe's  illness  ; 
but  every  day  Justine  came  and  inquired,  or  a  messenger 
was  sent.  And,  when,  this  fortunate  day,  Justine  herself 
came,  and  I  told  her  that  the  crisis  was  past,  she  seemed 
infinitely  relieved  and  happy.     Then  she  said  : 

"  Madame  has  been  ill  these  three  days,  also  ;  but  now 
I  think  she  will  be  better  ;  and  we  shall  go  soon." 

"  Ask  her,"  said  I,  "  not  to  go  yet  for  a  few  days. 
Press  it  as  a  favor  to  me."  Then,  on  second  thought 
I  sat  down  and  wrote  Mrs.  Falchion  a  note,  hinting  that 
there  were  grave  reasons  why  she  should  stay  a  little 
longer  :  things  connected  with  her  own  happiness. 
Truth  is,  I  had  received  a  note  that  morning  which  had 


MRS.    FALCHION.  273 

excited  me.  It  referred  to  Mrs.  Falchion.  For  I  was 
an  arch-plotter — or  had  been. 

I  received  a  note  in  reply  which  said  that  she  would 
do  as  I  wished.  Meanwhile  I  was  anxiously  awaiting 
the  arrival  of  someone. 

That  night  a  letter  came  to  Roscoe.  After  reading  it 
shrinkingly  he  handed  it  to  me.     It  said  briefly  : — 

"  I'm  not  sorry  I  did  it,  but  I'm  glad  I  hevn't  killed  you.  I  was 
drunk  and  mad.  If  1  hadn't  hurt  you,  I'd  never  hev  forgive  myself. 
I  reckon  now,  there's  no  need  to  do  any  forgivin'  either  side.  We're 
square — though  maybe  you  didn't  kill  her  after  all.  Mrs.  Falchion  says 
you  didn't.  But  you  hurt  her.  Well,  I've  hurt  you.  And  you  will 
never  hear  no  more  of  Phil's  pal  from  Danger  Mountain." 

Immediately  after  sunset  of  this  night,  a  storm  swept 
suddenly  down  the  mountains,  and  prevented  Ruth  and 
her  father  from  going  to  Viking.  I  left  them  talking 
to  Roscoe,  he  wearing  such  a  look  on  his  face  as  I 
like  to  remember  now,  free  from  distress  of  mind — 
so  much  more  painful  than  distress  of  body.  As  I  was 
leaving  the  room,  I  looked  back  and  saw  Ruth  sitting  on 
a  stool  beside  Roscoe's  chair,  holding  the  unmaimed 
hand  in  hers  ;  the  father's  face  shining  with  pleasure  and 
pride.  Before  I  went  out,  I  turned  again  to  look  at 
them,  and,  as  I  did  so,  my  eye  fell  on  the  window  against 
which  the  wind  and  rain  were  beating.  And  through  the 
wet  there  appeared  a  face,  shocking  in  its  paleness  and 
misery — the  face  of  Mrs.  Falchion.  Only  for  an  instant, 
and  then  it  was  gone. 

I  opened  the  door  and  went  out  upon  the  veranda. 
As  I  did  so,  there  was  a  flash  of  lightning,  and  in  that 
flash  a  figure  hurried  by  me.  One  moment,  and  there 
was  another  flash  ;  and  I  saw  the  figure  in  the  beating 
rain,  making  towards  the  precipice. 

Then  I  heard  a  cry,  not  loud,  but  full  of  entreaty  and 
sorrow.  I  moved  quickly  towards  it.  In  another  white 
gleam  I  saw  Justine  with  her  arms  about  the  figure,  hold- 


274  MRS-    FALCHION. 

ing  it  back  from  the  abyss.  She  said  with  incredible 
pleading  : 

"  No,  no,  Madame  !  not  that  !  It  is  wicked — wicked  !  " 

I  came  and  stood  beside  them. 

The  figure  sank  upon  the  ground,  and  buried  a  beauti- 
ful, pitiful  face  in  the  wet  grass. 

Justine  leaned  over  her. 

She  sobbed  as  one  whose  harvest  of  the  past  is  all  tears. 
Nothing  human  could  comfort  her  yet. 

I  think  she  did  not  know  that  I  was  there.  Justine 
lifted  her  face  to  me,  appealing. 

I  turned  and  stole  silently  away. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

IN    PORT. 

That  night  I  could  not  rest.  It  was  impossible  to 
rid  myself  of  the  picture  of  Mrs.  Falchion  as  I  had  seen 
her  by  the  precipice  in  the  storm.  What  I  had  dared  to 
hope  for  had  come.  She  had  been  awakened  :  and  with 
the  awakening  had  come  a  new  understanding  of  her 
own  life  and  the  life  of  others.  The  storm  of  wind  and 
rain  that  had  swept  down  the  ravine  was  not  wilder  than 
the  storm  of  her  passions  when  I  left  her  alone  with  Jus- 
tine in  the  dark  night. 

All  had  gone  well  where  the  worst  might  have  been. 
Roscoe's  happiness  was  saved  to  him.  He  felt  that  the 
accident  to  him  was  the  penalty  he  paid  for  the  error  of 
his  past :  but  in  the  crash  of  penalties  Mrs.  Falchion, 
too,  was  suffering,  and,  so  far  as  she  knew,  must  carry 
with  her  the  remorse  of  having  seen  without  mercy  her 
husband  sink  to  a  suicide's  grave.  I  knew  that  she  was 
paying  a  great  price  now  for  a  mistaken  past.  I  wished 
that  I  might  make  her  remorse  and  sorrow  less.     There 


MRS.    FALCHION.  275 

was  a  way,  but  I  was  not  sure  that  all  would  be  as  I 
wished.  Since  a  certain  dreadful  day  on  the  Firivia 
Hungerford  and  I  had  held  a  secret  in  our  hands.  When 
it  seemed  that  Mrs.  Falchion  would  bring  a  great  trouble 
and  shame  into  Roscoe's  life,  I  determined  to  use  the 
secret.  It  must  be  used  now  only  for  Mrs.  Falchion's 
good.  As  I  said  in  the  last  chapter,  I  had  received  word 
that  somebody  was  coming  whose  presence  must  take  a 
large  place  in  the  drama  of  these  events  :  and  I  hoped 
for  good. 

Until  morning  I  lay  and  planned  the  best  way  to  bring 
things  to  a  successful  issue.  The  morning  came — beau- 
tiful after  a  wild  night.  Soon  after  I  got  up  I  received 
a  note,  brought  by  a  boy  from  Viking,  which  gave  me  a 
thrill  of  excitement.  The  note  requested  me  to  go  to 
Sunburst.  But  first  I  sent  a  note  to  Mrs.  Falchion,  beg- 
ging her  in  the  name  of  our  new  friendship  not  to  leave 
the  mountains  that  day.  I  also  asked  that  she  would 
meet  me  in  Sunburst  that  evening  at  eight  o'clock,  at  a 
place  indicated  by  me.  I  asked  for  a  reply  by  the  mes- 
senger I  sent,  and  urged  her  to  ask  no  questions,  but  to 
trust  me  as  one  who  only  wished  to  do  her  a  great  ser- 
vice, as  I  hoped  her  compliance  would  make  possible. 
I  waited  for  the  reply,  and  it  bore  but  the  one  word — 
"Yes." 

Greatly  pleased  I  started  down  the  valley.  It  was 
still  early  when  I  reached  Sunburst.  I  went  directly  to 
the  little  tavern  from  whence  the  note  had  come,  and 
remained  an  hour  or  more.  The  result  of  that  hour's 
conversation  with  the  writer  of  the  note  was  memorable, 
as  was  the  hour  itself.  I  began  to  hope  fondly  for  the 
success  of  my  scheme. 

From  the  tavern  I  went  to  the  village,  with  an  elation 
hardly  disturbed  by  the  fact  that  many  of  the  salmon- 
fishers  were  sullen  because  of  foolish  depredations 
committed  the  evening  before  by  idle  rivermen  and  mill- 


276  MRS.    FALCHION. 

hands  of  Viking.  Had  I  not  been  so  occupied  with  Mrs. 
Falchion  and  an  event  wherein  she  must  figure,  I  should 
have  taken  more  seriously  the  mutterings  of  the  half- 
breeds,  the  moroseness  of  the  Indians,  and  the  nervous 
threatenings  of  the  white  fishers  :  the  more  so  because  I 
knew  that  Mr.  Devlin  had  started  early  that  morning  for 
the  Pacific  Coast  and  would  not  be  back  for  some  days. 

No  two  classes  of  people  could  be  more  different  than 
the  salmon-fishers  of  Sunburst  and  the  mill-hands  and 
river-drivers  of  Viking.  The  life  of  the  rivermen  was 
exciting,  hardy  and  perilous,  tending  to  boisterousness, 
recklessness,  daring,  and  wild  humor  :  that  of  the  salmon- 
fishers  was  cheerful,  picturesque,  infrequently  dangerous, 
mostly  simple  and  quiet.  The  river-driver  chose  to 
spend  his  idle  hours  in  crude  rough  sprightliness  :  the 
salmon-fisher  loved  to  lie  upon  the  shore  and  listen  to  the 
village  story-teller, — almost  official  when  successful, — 
who  played  upon  the  credulity  and  imagination  of  his 
listeners.  The  river-driver  loved  excitement  for  its  own 
sake,  and  behind  his  boisterousness  there  was  little  evil. 
When  the  salmon-fisher  was  roused,  his  anger  became 
desperately  serious.  It  was  not  his  practice  to  be 
boisterous  for  the  sake  of  boisterousness. 

All  this  worked  for  a  crisis. 

From  Sunburst  I  went  over  to  Viking,  and  for  a  time 
watched  a  handful  of  river-drivers  upon  a  little  island  in 
the  centre  of  the  river,  working  to  loose  some  logs  and 
timber  and  foist  them  into  the  water,  to  be  driven  down 
to  the  mill.  I  stood  interested,  because  I  had  nothing  to 
do  of  any  moment  for  a  couple  of  hours.  I  asked  an 
Indian  on  the  bank  to  take  his  canoe  and  paddle  me 
over  to  the  island.  He  did  so.  I  do  not  know  why  I 
did  not  go  alone  ;  but  the  Indian  was  near  me,  his  canoe 
was  at  his  hand,  and  I  did  the  thing  almost  mechanically. 
I  landed  on  the  island  and  watched  with  great  interest 
the  men  as  they  pried,  twisted,  and  tumbled  the  pile  to 


MRS.    FALCHION.  277 

get  at  the  key-log  which,  found  and  loosed,  would  send 
the  heap  into  the  water.  * 

I  was  sorry  I  brought  the  Indian  with  me,  for  though 
the  river-drivers  stopped  their  wild  sing-song  cry  for  a 
moment  to  call  a  "  How  !  "  at  me,  they  presently  began 
to  toss  jeering  words  at  the  Indian.  They  had  recognized 
him — I  had  not — as  a  salmon-fisher  and  one  of  the 
Siwash  tribe  from  Sunburst.  He  remained  perfectly 
silent,  but  I  could  see  sullenness  growing  on  his  face. 
He  appeared  to  take  no  notice  of  his  scornful  enter- 
tainers, but,  instead  of  edging  away,  came  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  tangle  of  logs — came,  indeed,  very  close  to 
me,  as  I  stood  watching  four  or  five  men  with  the  fore- 
man close  by,  working  at  a  huge  timber.  At  a  certain 
moment  the  foreman  was  in  a  kind  of  hollow.  Just 
behind  him,  near  to  the  Indian,  was  a  great  log,  which,  if 
loosened  by  a  slight  impulse,  must  fall  into  the  hollow 
where  the  foreman  stood.  The  foreman  had  his  face  to 
us  ;  the  backs  of  the  other  men  were  on  us.  Suddenly 
the  foreman  gave  a  frightened  cry,  and  I  saw  at  the  same 
instant  the  Indian's  foot  thrust  out  upon  the  big  log. 
Before  the  foreman  had  time  to  get  out  of  the  hollow,  it 
slid  down,  caught  him  just  above  the  ankle  and  broke  it. 

I  wheeled  to  see  the  Indian  in  his  canoe  making  for 
the  shore.  He  was  followed  by  the  curses  of  the  fore- 
man and  the  gang.  The  foreman  was  very  quiet,  but  I 
could  see  that  there  was  danger  in  his  eye,  and  the  ex- 
clamations of  the  men  satisfied  me  that  they  were  planning 
a  little  intermunicipal  difficulty. 

I  improvised  bandages,  set  the  leg  directly,  and  in  a 
short  time  we  got  to  the  shore  on  a  hastily-constructed 
raft.  After  seeing  the  foreman  safely  cared  for,  and  giv- 
ing Mr.  Devlin's  manager  the  facts  of  the  occurrence, 
more  than  sated  with  my  morning's  experience,  I  climbed 
the  mountain-side  and  took  refuge  from  the  heat  in  the 
coolness  of  Roscoe's  rooms. 


278  MRS.    FALCHION. 

In  the  afternoon  I  received  a  note  from  Mrs.  Falchion 
saying  that  on  the  following  day  she  would  start  for  the 
coast,  that  her  luggage  would  be  taken  to  Sunburst  at 
once,  and  that,  her  engagement  with  me  fulfilled,  she 
would  spend  a  night  there,  not  returning  again  to  the 
hills.  I  was  preparing  for  my  own  departure,  and  was 
kept  very  busy  until  evening.  Then  I  went  quickly  down 
into  the  valley,— for  I  was  late,— and  trudged  eagerly  on 
to  Sunburst.  As  I  neared  the  village  I  saw  that  there 
were  fewer  lights— torches  and  fires — than  usual  burning 
on  the  river.  I  noticed  also  that  there  were  very  few 
fishers  on  the  banks  or  in  the  river.  But  still  the  village 
seemed  noisy,  and,  although  it  was  dusk,  I  could  make 
out  much  stir  in  the  one  street  along  which  the  cottages 
and  huts  ambled  for  nearly  a  mile. 

All  at  once  it  came  to  me  strongly  that  the  friction 
between  the  two  villages  had  consummated  in  the  fore- 
man's injury,  and  was  here  coming  to  a  painful  crisis. 
My  suspicions  had  good  grounds.  As  I  hurried  on  I 
saw  that  the  lights  usually  set  on  the  banks  of  the  river 
were  scattered  through  the  town.  Bonfires  were  being 
lighted,  and  torches  were  flaring  in  front  of  the  Indian 
huts.  Coming  closer  I  saw  excited  groups  of  Indians, 
half-breeds  and  white  men  moving  here  and  there  ;  and 
then,  all  at  once,  there  came  a  cry — a  kind  of  roar — from 
farther  up  the  village,  and  the  men  gathered  themselves 
together,  seizing  sticks,  irons  and  other  weapons,  and  ran 
on  up  the  street.  I  understood.  I  was  moderately 
swift  of  foot  those  days,  and  came  quickly  after  them 
and  passed  them.  As  I  did  so  I  inquired  of  one  or  two 
fishers,  what  was  the  trouble.  They  told  me,  as  I  had 
guessed,  that  they  expected  an  attack  on  the  village  by 
the  mill-hands  and  river-drivers  of  Viking. 

The  situation  was  critical.  I  could  foresee  a  catas- 
trophe which  would  forever  unsettle  the  two  towns,  and 
give  the  valley  an  unenviable  reputation.     I  was  certain 


MRS.    FALCHION.  279 

that,  if  Roscoe  or  Mr.  Devlin  were  present,  a  prohibitive 
influence  could  be  brought  to  bear  ;  that  some  one  of 
strong  will  could  stand,  as  it  were,  in  the  gap  between 
them,  and  prevent  a  pitched  battle  and  possibly  blood- 
shed. I  was  sure  that  at  Viking  the  river-drivers  had 
laid  their  plans  so  secretly  that  the  news  of  them  would 
scarcely  reach  the  ears  of  the  manager  of  the  mill,  and 
that,  therefore,  his  influence,  as  Mr.  Devlin's,  would  not 
be  available. 

Remained  only  myself — as  I  first  thought.  I  was  un- 
known to  a  great  number  of  the  men  of  both  villages, 
and  familiar  with  but  very  few, — chiefly  those  with  whom 
I  had  got  a  gossiping  acquaintance.  Yet,  somehow,  I  felt 
that  if  I  could  but  get  a  half-dozen  men  to  take  a  firm 
stand  with  me,  I  might  hold  the  rioters  in  check. 

As  I  ran  by  the  side  of  the  excitable  fishers,  I  urged 
upon  one  or  two  of  them  the  wisdom  and  duty  of  pre- 
venting a  conflict.  Their  reply  was — and  it  was  pretty 
convincing — that  they  were  not  forcing  a  struggle,  but 
were  being  attacked,  and  in  the  case  would  fight.  My 
hasty  persuasion  produced  but  little  result.  But  I 
kept  thinking  hard.  Suddenly  it  came  to  me  that  I 
could  place  my  hand  upon  a  man  whose  instincts  in 
the  matter  would  be  the  same  as  mine  ;  who  had  au- 
thority ;  knew  the  world  ;  had  been  in  dangerous  posi- 
tions in  his  life-time  ;  and  owed  me  something.  I  was 
sure  that  I  could  depend  upon  him  :  the  more  so  that 
once  frail  of  body  he  had  developed  into  a  strong, 
well-controlled  man. 

Even  as  I  thought  of  him,  I  was  within  a  few  rods  of 
the  house  where  he  was.  I  looked,  and  saw  him  standing 
in  the  doorway.  I  ran  and  called  to  him.  He  instantly 
joined  me,  and  we  ran  on  together ;  the  fishermen 
shouting  loudly  as  they  watched  the  river-drivers  come 
armed  down  the  hill-slope  into  the  village. 

I  hastily  explained  the  situation  to  my  friend,  and  told 


280  MRS.    FALCHION. 

him  what  we  must  do.  A  word  or  two  assured  me  of  all 
I  wished  to  know.  We  reached  the  scene  of  the  dis- 
order. The  fishermen  were  bunched  together,  the  river 
on  the  one  side,  the  houses  and  hills  on  the  other. 
The  river-drivers  had  halted  not  many  yards  away, 
cool,  determined,  and  quiet,  save  for  a  little  muttering. 
In  their  red  shirts,  top  boots,  many  of  them  with  long 
black  hair  and  brass  earrings,  they  looked  a  pretty  for- 
midable crowd.  They  had  evidently  taken  the  matter 
seriously  and  were  come  with  the  intention  of  carrying 
their  point,  whatever  it  might  be.  Just  as  we  reached 
the  space  between  the  two  parties,  the  massive  leader 
of  the  river-drivers  stepped  forward,  and  in  a  rough  but 
collected  voice  said  that  they  had  come  determined  to 
fight,  if  fighting  was  necessary,  but  that  they  knew  what 
the  end  of  the  conflict  would  be,  and  they  didn't  want 
to  obliterate  Sunburst  entirely  if  Sunburst  accepted  the 
conditions  of  peace. 

There  seemed  no  leader  to  the  fishermen. 
My  friend  said  to  me  quickly, — "  You  speak  first." 
Instantly  I  stepped  forward  and  demanded  to  know 
what  the  terms  of  peace  were.  As  soon  as  I  did  so, 
there  were  harsh  mutterings  among  the  river-drivers.  I 
explained  at  once,  waving  back  some  of  the  fishermen 
who  were  clamoring  about  me,  that  I  had  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  the  quarrel,  that  I  happened  to  be  where 
I  was  by  accident,  as  I  had  happened  by  accident  to  see 
the  difficulty  of  the  morning.  But  I  said  that  it  was  the 
duty  of  every  man  who  was  a  good  citizen  and  respected 
the  laws  of  his  country,  to  see,  in  so  far  as  it  was  possible, 
that  there  should  be  no  breach  of  the  laws.  I  spoke  in 
a  clear  strong  voice,  and  I  think  I  produced  some  effect 
upon  both  parties  to  the  quarrel.  The  reply  of  the 
leader  was  almost  immediate.  He  said  that  all  they 
demanded  was  the  Indian  who  had  so  treacherously 
injured  the  foreman  of  their  gangs.     I  saw  the  position 


MRS.    FALCHION.  251 

at  once,  and  was  dumbfounded.     For  a  moment  I  did 
not  speak. 

I  was  not  prepared  for  the  scene  that  immediately 
occurred.  Some  one  broke  through  the  crowd  at  my 
back,  rushed  by  me,  and  stood  between  the  two  forces. 
It  was  the  Indian  who  had  injured  the  foreman.  He 
was  naked  to  the  waist,  and  painted  and  feathered 
after  the  manner  of  his  tribe  going  to  battle.  There 
was  a  wild  light  in  his  eye,  but  he  had  no  weapon.  He 
folded  his  arms  across  his  breast,  and  said  : 

"  Well,  you  want  me.  Here  I  am.  I  will  fight  with  any 
man  all  alone,  without  a  gun  or  arrow  or  anything.  I 
will  fight  with  my  arms — to  kill." 

I  saw  revolvers  raised  at  him  instantly,  but  at  that 
the  man,  my  friend,  who  stood  beside  me,  sprang  in  front 
of  the  Indian. 

"  Stop  !  "  he  said,  "  in  the  name  of  the  law  !  I 
am  a  sergeant  of  the  mounted  police  of  Canada.  My 
jurisdiction  extends  from  Winnipeg  to  Vancouver.  You 
cannot  have  this  man  except  over  and  through  my  body  : 
and  for  my  body  every  one  of  you  will  pay  with  your 
lives  :  for  every  blow  given  this  night,  there  will  be  a 
hundred  blows  struck  upon  the  river-drivers  and  mill- 
hands  of  this  valley.  Beware  !  Behind  me  is  the  law 
of  the  land,  her  police  and  her  soldiery." 

He  paused.  There  was  almost  complete  silence.  He 
continued. 

"  This  man  is  my  prisoner  ;  I  arrest  him  " — he  put  his 
hand  upon  the  Indian's  shoulder.—"  For  the  crime  he 
committed  this  morning  he  shall  pay  :  but  to  the  law, 
not  to  you.  Put  up  your  revolvers,  men.  Go  back  to 
Viking.  Don't  risk  your  lives,  don't  break  the  law  and 
make  yourselves  criminals  and  outlaws.  Is  it  worth  it  ? 
Be  men.  You  have  been  the  aggressors.  There  isn't 
one  of  you  but  feels  that  wild  justice  which  is  the  boast 
of  every  man  of  the  West.     You  wanted  to  avenge  the 


282  MRS.    FALCHION. 

crime  of  this  morning.  But  the  vengeance  is  the  law's. — 
Stand  back.  Stand  back  !  "  he  said,  and  drew  his  revol- 
ver, as  the  leader  of  the  river-drivers  stepped  forward. 
"  I  will  kill  the  first  man  that  tries  to  lay  his  hand  upon 
my  prisoner.  Men,  don't  be  mad.  I  am  not  one  man, 
I  am  a  whole  country." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  thrill  that  searched  me  as  I 
saw  a  man  who,  but  a  handful  of  months  before,  was 
neck  deep  in  his  grave,  now  blossomed  out  into  a  strong, 
brave,  defiant  soldier. 

There  was  a  pause.  At  last  the  leader  of  the  river- 
drivers  spoke.  "See,"  he  said,  "sergeant,  I  guess 
you're  right.  You're  a  man,  so  help  me  God  !  Say, 
boys,"  he  continued,  turning  to  his  followers,  "let  him 
have  the  Injin.     I  guess  he's  earned  him." 

So  saying  he  wheeled,  the  men  with  him,  and  they 
tramped  up  the  slope  again  on  their  way  back  to  Viking. 
The  man  who  had  achieved  this  now  turned  upon  the 
fishers. 

"  Back  to  your  homes,"  he  said,  "  and  be  thankful 
that  blood  was  not  shed  here  to-night.  Let  this  be  a 
lesson  to  you.     Now  go." 

The  crowd  turned,  slowly  shambled  down  the  river- 
side, and  left  us  three  standing  there. 

But  not  alone.  Out  of  the  shadows  of  one  of  the 
houses  came  two  women.  They  stepped  forward  into 
the  light  of  the  bonfire  burning  near  us.  One  of  the 
women  was  as  pale  as  death. 

It  was  Mrs.  Falchion. 

I  touched  the  arm  of  the  man  standing  beside  me. 
He  wheeled  and  saw  her  also.  A  cry  broke  from  his 
lips,  but  he  stood  still,  panting.  A  whole  lifetime  of 
sorrow,  trouble  and  love  looked  out  of  his  eyes.  Mrs. 
Falchion  came  nearer.  Clasping  her  hands  upon  her 
breast,  she  peered  up  into  his  face,  and  said  breathlessly  : 

"Oh— Oh— I    thought  that  you  were    drowned— and 


MRS.    FALCHION.  283 

dead  !  I  saw  you  buried  in  the  sea.  No — no — it  cannot 
be  you  ! — I  have  heard  and  seen  all  within  these  past  few 
minutes.  You  are  so  strong  and  brave,  so  great  a  man  ! 
.  .  .  Oh,  tell  me,  tell  me,  and  save  me  from  the 
horror  of  my  remorse  and  shame  :  are  you  my  husband  ?  " 

He  spoke. 

"  I  was  your  husband,  Mercy  Falchion.  I  was  drowned, 
but  this  man  " — he  turned  and  touched  my  shoulder — 
"  this  man  brought  me  back  to  life.  I  wanted  to  be  dead 
to  the  world.  I  begged  him  to  keep  my  secret.  A  dead 
sailor  was  buried  in  my  shroud.  At  Aden  I  stole  from 
the  boat  in  the  night.  I  came  to  America — to  Canada 
— to  begin,  as  I  believed,  a  new  life  under  a  new  name, 
never  to  see  you  again.  .  .  .  Don't,  don't  speak  to 
me — unless — oh,  my  wife  ! — unless — I  am  not  to  lose  you 
again  ;  unless  I  know  that  now  you  forgive  me — that 
you  forgive  me — and  wish  me  to  live." 

She  put  both  her  hands  out,  a  strange  unutterable  look 
in  her  eyes,  and  said  :  "  I  have  sinned — I  have  sinned." 

He  took  her  hands  in  his. 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  ''that  you  do  not  love  me  yet,  but 
you  may  some  day." 

uNo,"  she  said,  "I  do  not  love  you  :  but  you  must 
teach  me  how.     I  am  glad  you  live.     Let  us — go  home." 


FINIS. 


D.   APPLETON  &   CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


NOVELS  BY  MAARTEN  MAARTENS. 
J^HE  GREATER  GLORY.     A  Story  of  High  Lift. 
M.        By  Maarten  Maartens,    author  of  "  God's   Fool,"    "  Joost 
Avelingh,"  etc.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Until  the  Appletons  discovered  the  merits  of  Maarten  Maartens,  the  foremost  o§ 
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tion. To  our  mind  this  just  published  work  of  his  is  his  best.  .  .  .  He  is  a  master  oi 
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GOB'S  FOOL.     By  Maarten    Maartens.       121110. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

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phia Ledger. 

"  Its  preface  alone  stamps  the  author  as  one  of  the  leading  English  novelists  of 
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CYOOST  AVELINGH.      By  Maarten    Maartens. 

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New  York :  D\  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


D.  APPLETON   AND   COMPANY'S   PUBLICATIONS. 

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imaginative  it  is,  how  impassioned,  how  superbly  rhythmic  and  sonorous!  .  ,  .  The 
ring  and  diction  of  this  verse  add  new  elements  to  our  song.  .  .  .  The  true  laureate 
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ft/TANY   INVENTIONS.     By  Rudyard  Kipling. 

•*■  *-*  Containing  Fourteen  Stories  and  Two  Poems.  i2mo,  427 
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